Loving me is hell
The brim ****** coal melt the
The rubber base of my shoes
Leaving my soles bare-
And red and raw-
Pulsating with heat-
Pumping blood into my skin in attempts to
Make it alive again.
But my body is faulty
And it does not know the flakes around my toes
Are already gone
And any aid to save them is as useless
As rubber trying to fight fire.
Loving me is hell
Because when my feet are the first to die I cannot stand any longer
And I will need you to carry my rotisserie rotten
Soles to where ever it is you wish me to go
And at first your arms are strong enough to hold my weight
But like everything else
Like the iron on statues like
The wood that built a house
They will weaken
And I will only be a burden of a beast
With soles so black you will wonder how a soul
Could stay in that fire and still be in tacked
And into that fiery hell you will consider throwing my body back
Because loving me is just like that

Promise me you will not
Spend too much time talking
Forever busy diluting oxygen from atoms
So that you eventually forget
And I mean, truly forget,
How much you love the sound
Of another’s voice
Embrace the ache you feel not when you
Are lonely and miss someone to talk to
But when you are alone and have no one to listen to
Always remember how much
Every word you’ve ever heard has kept you company
And promise that even on this circular planet
When you stand up as tall as you can
And then when you can’t see the end of it
That you will look anyway
To find the people worth listening to
And even if you sometimes slump over the curve on this earth
And your stomach aches with the pressure of your arched body
Over this rounded mass of a planet
Remember that you can ease the pain by keeping your chin prompt up
And your eyes always forward
Place your face in my hands if you must
I’ll hold it steady so you can have a better view
Of this world and the people in it
And every now and then I’ll turn your head
So you can look in a different direction.
And if the thunders of this world are really just the growling
Of your stomach over top of it
Know you can feed that ache with the stories of others
And when they get hungry you can tell your own story
One free from the ignorance of not listening to others
That have taken the time too, to get a better world view
When you do speak keep in mind all that you’ve seen
Promise me to wait when you come back down to earth
And you have something true to say.
Promise that when you’re done saying it that
You will listen even better than before
Even if all they have to say back is I love you too.

You pledge allegiance to a certain type of government.
A nation that is ruled by fat men
in ***** dens who fill the air so heavy with smoke
it tears up your eyes so you can water their poppy fields
and all the while with your right hand over your heart
that beats feverishly with the influx
of toxins that mix with your blood
and dilute the red poppy petal
with clear atoms that bubble on spoons
in the shape of bone crossed skulls.
They rule with iron fists clenched around
green paper that they take from you only
to sell you back  fresh needles as necessary happiness
to counteract the sadness they have created and placed you in.
They sit there with smoke rings coming from o-shaped lips
that ring around the perpetual cycle of
supply and demand-
supplying addiction and wrapping it in itches
and demanding your free left hand scratch
and you do, you scratch so hard that your skin opens up
and the pain requires more relief.
The nation you live in waves its flag with
173 stars representing Celsius and not celestial
because space is far away from this place
and it offers too much unknown for you to think
that there is a different world besides the one they own
and maybe there is true happiness there
somewhere where hands are free from swollen veins
that act as puppet strings.

The Baker boy down the street is a peculiar thing. His book bag is a familiar sight around town, its red and aged with dirt, it’s anchored to his back by brown straps that are torn and excrete small little tuffs of white stuffing. Like the kind you’d find inside a teddy bear. The large front pocket is scribbled with poorly drawn cartoonish characters. Doodles one could assume to be depictions of imaginary friends and by the boy’s sheepish and largely odd demeanor one could also assume these imaginary friends were probably spawned by the lack of real ones. The boy’s book bag is more familiar than the boy. If only because his face solely exists in a light tan hoodie too close in color to the completion of his skin to readily differentiate between the two. Either way, the Baker boy usually always has his head down, this allows for a small ***** in his posture that pushes his book bag up to the very top of his back, making it very prominent, making it something like a substitute for a head. People started recognizing his book bag as the boy himself. In their minds they could see it as clearly as they could the faces of their own children, spouses, close friends. They gave his book bag the same recognition and remembrance of aesthetic value as one would give to the details of a face. They notice quickly and with the same concentration a new rip in his straps as they would a pimple on someone’s chin. He never spoke. Not to anyone. Not a word. The kind of recognition given to a person’s voice with whom you are familiar is a sign of their presence in your world, a kind of confirmation of their existence other than their physical self. The Baker boy used a sound instead, lacking a voice. The specific sound the Baker boy used to validate his existence in our town sounded like the soft scratching of an itch, a repetitive petting of his book bag strap that marked conscious thoughts from underneath a silent exterior. He did this when he was nervous, or if he felt he was being prompted to speak. A repetitive thumbing of his book bag straps.

I think some days
I am not wholly me
I am solely my own, I know
but some days I feel like only half of who I am
its not like the other half of me is missing
I know fully where, if I were to split,
where the other half would surely go
it would go with you
and while I am sitting or writing or
doing nothing of particular importance
a part of me would be carried with you
if you knew it or not
I would fold the extra half of my being
into the creases of your pant leg
the underside of your tie clip
or the heels of your feet
so that with every movement your body makes
I could make it too and then at least half of me
could dance with you.
and if there is ever a day when I feel  
a little heavier than my whole I'll know
that half of you yearned to dance with me
some days too.

In the end it’s the smallest of things
That make the biggest of impacts.
It’s the last ripple of an earthquake
Or of a skipped stone.
It’s like how you’d rather cut open your leg
Than turn a corner and stub your toe.
It’s the smaller kiss on the forehead
That follows the longer one on the lips.
When saying goodbye
It’s not the deep looks into each other’s eyes
It’s the rear-view glance at that person’s
Back that makes you cry.

If I had  a daughter,
I would tell her this-
"Never lose your strength baby girl,
Always respect yourself enough to walk away
From anything or one that makes you unhappy
Walk away in combat boots or stiletto heels."
I would tell her,
"Always travel light, don’t ever be weighed down by all
The burdens life will make you carry
And if you struggle sometimes don’t worry because
Your mama will always be behind you with a purse
Big enough to hold some of them for you."
I would tell her,
"Always keep your heart on your sleeve
And after that teenage boy rips it off time and time again
Don’t worry because mama will always keep on hers
A needle and thread to sew it back on."
And, "Either way Papa's a straight shot."
I would tell her,
"Baby girl when things get rough,
When you’re down and getting back up seems
Impossible and you’re feeling low and you're feeling stuck
You can always reach for my hand if you need it
Even though I know you don’t."
And I know she’ll remember how strong she really is
How beautiful in everyway she grew up to be
And when the same people that pushed her down
Tried to again-
She would tell them,
"You know, you should really talk to my mother."