lion's teeth in my hair,
i find you again,
dandelion girl.
you're a riddle
that lingers--
a gingerly whisper
gliding in those
hiding spaces
of mine.
but now,
as the puzzle pieces
come together,
you click.
fit,
right in
the corner
that tends
to stay silent;
quietly humming
until you're
stuck in my head
on a loop.
face down and
deflated by pendulum,
reticulum filled
with aileron;
where is the
distinguishing
of monarchs
and vespas?
the hornet
or the motor;
the crown
seems to be flux.
flummoxed
in seeds of wonderment,
soiled in doubt.
they say fear
is stronger
than love;
but true love
conquers all.
however, concords
are irresolute
because we see
both edges
of your sword.
choose, dandelion girl,
which to (re)spite.
your (t)horns
appear to do
more than protect.
perhaps, they wasp
your wisps away;
but i say you’re
too young
not to dream.
rose-colored glasses
are a bad tint,
but what about
rose-hued stents,
petaled stitches
keep you from
sm
peering from dark alleyways,
is a manchild, and a girl:
children all the same,
both in metamorphosis.
the manchild, however,
tapers the girl
in his arms,
a bear-wide
slinking of sorrow
around her frame
and she curls
into this.
much like an old-aged
nubian with hairs
in the foetal position,
she falls out, eventually.
and a-part of this mess
stands the manchild,
face turned red
and consequence bearing
down on his head
like an avalanche--
(i know, i know.
he can be suffocating
and she can be so cold.)
he is stabbing
the snow in search
of where she's burrowed,
buried herself
and neither of them
are to be found.
incomplete,
is a grave
wit
diary regrets
regurgitated
like old milk
from the spout
where the spittle
is let out.
ladle identity
in porcelain curves
and wooden faces,
value meandering
in expression.
follow the winding path,
and believe in the
black horse for wrap-
ping ideas in paper
cranes and salt cellars.
but these shouldn't be
cursory tales.
this a chang(el)ing,
told in threes.
i.
template of (cri)sis,
their irises clash
against mine--
grey, green, brown
are locked in
a battle royale
of finality
in the final month.
the only solution
that is finite
is that unwrapping
the present
allows infinite
possibilities.
and infinite
possibilities
intimidate like
the b
undressing in static, pressed in solitude by chromeantennae, literature
Literature
undressing in static, pressed in solitude
ankles in quiet tub water
unrippled,
i want to paint feathers
on the corners of your mouth
kneeling in this
ancient cistern
i want to stain new letters
in the ladder
of your stomach
and swallow new wor(l)ds
your voice, lines a reconciliation
of forgotten running faucets
and blood plated
porcelain
so i want you to take
an orb of my curls
consume my locks,
my collateral of chromatin,
and wear me like i wear you
i'm tired of using the words
"linger" and "hover" for this
because it is not oxygen
and you are not breathing
life in this relationship
and all it does is sail
away from my grasp
i'm tired of seeing the shapes
"rectangle" and "rhombus" in your eyes
they are not real, they are imagined
and you are not dreaming
tonight, or any night, really
and all the edges poke your retinas
and i go blind from staring
i'm tired of the triangular
diameter of "square"
and "compasses"
closing your palms
and i don't believe in space,
outer edges or emptiness alike,
the universe centered
around the boiling sun
meant to swallow
like orange tea;
i'd rather dro
can you see?
there's dust in my hair.
trust, there's dust in my hair.
can you see? dust,
there's trust in my hair.
there's trust in my hair.
trust, there's must in my hair.
can you see? must,
there's lust in my hair.
there's lust in my air.
lust, there's crust in my air.
can you see? crust,
there's locusts in my air.
there's locusts in my air.
locusts, there's muss in my heir.
can you see? muss,
there's thighs in tear.
there's thighs in tear.
thighs, there's us in bare.
can you see? us,
there's tears in here.
iso iso iso
isolation in eros
and tethered tempos
scintillation and vigor
rigorous and writ(h)ing.
hinged on bruises
and fang divots.
singed nails scale
like sinaloa realm
and you are the snake;
i am the eagle.
flip pages in white waves
and the draft is written
in your throat,
released into universe
like a lullaby for
the arriving.