Abated

Articulated,
brought forth by a sinister,
deceptive, bourgeois plot,
belonging to a hidden Illuminati,
unknown even to themselves,
obscured by immeasurable space-time.

Calculated,
whose self worth,
is to self preserve,
and obey the invented physical laws,
of a dead universe,
with a pesky living problem.

Regulated,
sold heteronormative,
definitions of one’s self,
the only exit, 
a Foucauldian reappropriation,
of the same shit.

Incarcerated, 
given free rein to run in the yard,
so long as you don’t fly away,
as if they could clip your wings anyway,
and put you in solitary confinement,
on a planet of squabbling hens.

Innoculated,
to the idea of love,
the unanimity of truth,
the possibility of there being,
a point beyond,
being some sociopathic chemical’s vector.

Immolated,
my soul bursting out,
through fleshy pustules,
until my deflated body,
jets away,
and can never be recovered. 

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body dysmorphic

Traded in your reflection,
just for one last glimpse.

Murdered,
banished,
left behind,
so that you can grasp at a mirage.

Longed for,
pined for,
even with its broken nose,
and bruised sockets,
tongue-tied,
black and blue.

Uneven geometry of the face,
cancer of the soul,
blank-faced,
dead-eyed,
staring into oblivion,
not like a deer in headlights,
but like the blind before a sunset,
when all they can see is the vacuum of space.

Bloody lips, 
grinding hips,
drunken non-memories,
the unfinished novel on your hard drive,
the unfinished song in your throat,
whose only metronome was your heart beat,
with its limited pumps,
with its audacity to live on,
even when your mother died,
even when you wanted to die too.

Eaten up by those heartbreakers you never really knew, 
consumed by a consumerist obsession,
pretty boys with vapid stares,
and such good bone structure,
even though they’re still only bones,
and the one you really needed,
was curled up in his chrysalis,
beautiful, hidden, secretive,
lost to the world,
an empty grail,
dripping from your own bloody nose,
your broken nose

Your own imperfect bone structure,
your droopy eye,
your fear of the dark,
which swallowed all of your dreams,
and spit out a twenty-something,
small-hearted and quietly dying,
lost soul, 
glued to the present,
denied a glimpse of the future,
and drowning in a murky past.

Coughing up globs of fog, 
weeping tears of glass,
which don’t suffice to build a mirror,
and see back into its origin,
that spot in your mind,
where a child weeps,
cries out for the home,
you can never go back to.

There is another way,
a second reflection,
a projection of the soul,
onto the other,
that takes you back when you want,
and takes you forward too.

It dreams of waking up,
so open yourself up from navel to nose,
until your aching everything,
spills on the pavement.

Until the atoms in your bones, 
rejoin his dust,
and there is nothing left to reflect.  

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The God of the Small Things

The children called it the God of the Small Things,
who brings forth the world not by the grandiose machinations of some higher intellect,
but instead by the tenacity to simply dream of a fire that will always be alight, 
searing the night away, 
warming your flesh until long after it is bled dry, crumbled into cosmic sand, radiated, pulverized, and split into a million dancing electrons,
who don’t dance for any single reason,
but always will remember…

They called his domain the Kingdom of the Small Things,
the foolish things that made you cry and that you can look back on now and shake your head at, 
their corpses hanging like piñatas at a birthday party that has long since died down, 
who burst to remind you about what you were when you were young,
and how all the atoms that you were back then have been released into the infiniteness of this world, 
and travel on lonely gusts across time and oceans,
but will always remember..;

They said that his word was the Gospel of the Small Things,
a sentimentality some believed to be devoid of all reason, 
as if those dancing electrons were supposed to really be rational beings, 
who don’t dance unless its on MTV and want to expand their clothing lines into Southeast Asia,
and not because they are in love,
like the way you used to love the small things,
and loved them in a small language, constructed by small people with small words,
for fear that their irrationally big love would destroy us all and leave behind only a hollow, electric echo,
that pulsed alone in dark space,
but will always remember…

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Rabat

A town of cats
beholden only to each other,
which is to say, beholden only to
the town of cats,
which is all they know,
take refuge from the winter’s rain
in the few remaining awnings
of the Andalusian Garden
and watch the careless palms
drop their dew,
resulting in ripples,
upon ripples
which wet their paws
and make me weep.

And, I cry even harder,
when one of these same cats
leaves her shelter
to nestle on my shoulder
and urge me to go on.

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To the Skeleton in my Closet: Love, me.

Your bone structure is lovely,

but you’re just a shriveled up, old skeleton,

waiting to be excavated someday

and finally be famous

in that très ironique fashion

you’ve so desired;

your skull smiling

(even though you were only ever brooding in photos)

in some disgustingly sterile museum

where they will pay to gawk at you

and think only of your bones,

never the things they carried.

But, I’ll love you anyway,

even when you’re dust.

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