hot pocket cold pocket

 all the lines in my fingers quiver

weave bend, none straight

a gentle shiver woven fibers

skin cell dust

curving my branches

my fragile fingers

to hold

the reflection of my face

a sphere of light, in my palm

a broken egg on hot concrete

a warm pocket to place my fingers into, in that unbearable cold freezing terrible winter east coast air

longing for evergreen and soft dirt and winter never feeling like it started or ended

and burying strange herbs and bones in the backyard under a full moon

finding chicken's blood on my forehead

and only ever being known for 

being known for

being known

being not known

wrapped up 

like a piece of gum

and maybe i held the bird / the face / the sun in my palm too tightly

or maybe i'm a monster

is it easier easier easier

make a glob in your cheek and hold it there forever

kinda easy living

like a pebble in your shoe, you see it and re-glue it back to the inside

so it grinds into the previous wound and re-dents it 

so you can complain

and lose hope

and lose fibers of yourself

they just fall off

like dead skin

like all my past relationships

what a terrible future

walking around with no flesh

just an animatronic human cage of bones and wires

what a terrible dream bone cage

what a terrible world full of terrible people

every one is terrible

and they still have their fibers

i don't know if I like anyone

like, the air is too salty

and my fingers quiver too much

and my eyes hurt from seeing

Oro / gold stuck in my throat

Oro / gold stuck in my throat 

she ate and left no crumbs

is a new metaphor for the

oro-boros

burro

burros

a pierna suelta

there could be a heart and a loose leg

no brain activity

maybe it is in the other world where

you and i live

under covers and layers of lace so think 

thousands of fine silks between my heart and yours 

the clouds thicken and clothes up my throat

asthma

my best friend

a good friend who

will run you to death

will hide yer inhaler

will get you

to eat raw onions

steal 'em from your friend's fridge

a symbol of true friendship

is

waking up in the middle of the night to give your dying non-breathing-well friend a clove

of raw garlic

only to find 

she is a cage of her flesh and bones and breath and blood

and empty inside

years pass and she is no longer shaking

the way a tree is no longer alive

and from afar looks whole

and only one little itch a scratch she can't reach

and it all falls down

now broken pieces of the aforementioned shell life

but what a life she led! little shell of a person!

little wolf in sheep's mink fur coat

and silk heels

and gemstone clips

a necklace everytime she squaks

a shiny piece of leather

a sheep's collar

and inside but did you know

layers and layers of fluffy cotton, gauze, lace, silk

in-between her voice and the air

what you heard that sounded like speaking 

was only her 

wheezing

seven sunrises later

 it hurt so much

stone stomach

critical hit

critical mass

nothing but an empty space in the driftwood

framing a texture of waves

and a memory of a summer

that was spent lonely

driving 

flea market

estate sale

before you

worked

and before you

had 38 hours of part-time work

and a fire pit you bought for $5

and that one successful turn

after watching the colour of pomengranates

you had hope

it lasted for 5 years

and faded like a polaroid left in the sun