spilled ink

You are the universe;

An endless expanse of the unknown.

You’re far away in the stars,

Yet I am grounded.

I long to walk amongst your galaxies,

Yet you are so far.

Please come down to earth.

Adult Problems

Me, putting my sheets into the washing machine: this is going to be the best gonna smell so good be so soft and comfy

Me, having to put the sheets back on: why does god allow suffering

phantom feelings...

Do you ever suffer from phantom feelings? a phantom vibration from your phone but no one has messaged you? or the worst one of all: phantom food. your server comes out of the kitchen with your meal on a tray, delicious and steaming, making it’s way to you, your mouth salivating with eager anticipation, and right before it’s about to be yours the server angles their trajectory just a tad, moves to the next table—it was never yours to begin with. well, we know that pain. you are not alone.

Randoms...

So you’re a young lady living in Mulan’s village. Like the other girls you get all dolled up and go to the matchmaker to find a husband.

The local tomboy goes first so you’re chilling outside, psyching yourself up, chatting up the gals, when you hear a crash from inside followed by screaming.

Out runs the matchmaker, she’s covered in ink and on fire. Mulan throws an entire kettle of steaming tea in her face. The matchmaker yells at her that she will never be married or bring her family honor. It’s been at most five minutes.

What do you do? Do you just, like, go home? Explain to your family you didn’t get a husband cause your neighbor set the matchmaker on fire? Do you go inside and try your luck at getting a husband on the 50-50 shot she gives all the well behaved girls good husbands out of spite while risking her foul mood giving everyone shitty matches?

Idk I just wanna know how that afternoon went for everyone else there.

The Neighborhood So Far

If my heart is a house
then it stands on your street
in the little village
where you are paperboy,
mailman, garbage collector,
water meter reader,
building inspector, vacuum
cleaner salesman, UPS driver,
yard crew, chimney sweep,
window washer, tax assessor,
magazine solicitor,
census taker,
snow shoveler, house painter,
voyeur, door to door
scam artist, vandal,
burglar, thief
extortionist, thief
burglar, thief
arsonist arsonist arsonist.

LOVE LETTER

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I’m alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn’t just tow me an inch, no–
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn’t it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter-
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,

But didn’t convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.

I wasn’t fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It’s a gift.

Claustrophilia

It’s just me throwing myself at you,
romance as usual, us times us,

not lust but moxibustion,
a substance burning close

to the body as possible
withut risk of immolation.

Nearness without contact
causes numbness. Analgesia.

Pins and needles. As the snugness
of the surgeon’s glove causes hand fatigue.

At least this procedure
requires no swag or goody bags,

stuff bestowed upon the stars
at their luxe functions.

There’s no dress code,
though leg irons

are always appropriate.
And if anyone says what the hell

are you wearing in Esperanto
—Kion diable vi portas?—

tell them anguish
is the universal language.

Stars turn to trainwrecks
and my heart goes out

admirers gush. Ground to a velvet!
But never mind the downside,

mon semblable, mon crush.
Love is just the retaliation of light.

It is so profligate, you know,
so rich with rush.