I sealed blue ink
into your chest
where you kept
all the letters
that you had been sent,
a morning in May
when you were away
tucked nondescript
for another day.

Like the picture I wear over my face
Cocked grin frozen in its place
Tilt my head to one side
and ideas
slide
through my ear canal onto the floor.
Shake it, and you may find more
than a body or two
like a kiss at the zoo
or a blacklit vision
Baby, the light is getting so dim.
I’ve just been tumbling
toes to the ground
with a blue book clutched to my chest
where I write all my secrets
the only record that I exist
I wanted him to want it
But he never quite got it
And now I’ve gone and lost it

She calls me blue
They say I have a strange face
He tried to draw it and stacked the pictures by his bed
Efficacy
is paramount
to efficiency.
And efficiency is paramount
to saccharine
to poetic
stories
feelings
people
As each connection leaves I feel a relief
No longer tied to the sentimentality of childhood
And they may have guessed correctly
about my lack of remorse.

Sirius uprising
She’s the son of Orion
Somehow compelled across realms to
Well to

Can I see a twin star?
I don’t think I see that far.
Dwelling in the future
Oracle-style
Ask me who is
The one

My head keeps pounding. I can’t focus
my eyes are frosted.
I lack direction.
I crave connection.
But I have perspective.
I elected to respect it.
I’ll persevere
in fear
that if I don’t then I won’t be real;
repeat that mantra;
hide the Achilles heel.
“I can’t believe in you forever.”
Even though there most likely is no objective truth,
and though moral values and ethical principles alike are subjective, constructive,
we could pool our thought
to settle
on a mutable schematism
of shared public consciousness,
by which we will faithfully conduct ourselves
for the sake of the human condition.

So yes it is possible
that you know me,
but to assume
would be too much.
I seek your touch.
I need your time.
It’s not enough.
I want to hear it,
have it sketched
or do something;
etch
it into legend,
into sand,
into stone,
into bone.

I’m a venture.
Maybe a loss.

Straighten me out.
My bones are hurting.
My heart is stone.
You’re sand departing,
already blown.
My love is starting.
I’m coming home.

What if I shook loose glass into my eyes
What if he thinks this remix is the original
What if someone comes in
and this hat looks

Okay so there’s clearly a pattern in terms of individuals by whom I’ve felt intrigued
And even among these archetypes I’ve managed to identify a couple sub-archetypes
Of course you can’t say their names, because no human could
(I mean I can’t put a name to them
that would be fair and specific)
I can only point my finger
and helplessly mouth
like in a silent film.

“You’ll be loved,”
is it possible to unwind my spool
remove past entanglements
cut knots free
one
by one

I could put it in writing and sign my name that
if I could be alone my whole life
until I’m 80
and finally ready
I think I would

Most challenges come down to IQ.
Most people are trying to expose you.
Persistence is key.
Investigating the feelings of others
does not yourself a feeler make.

Listen buster, I’ve had eyes
long enough to know what you are.

Good looks like
Well it looks like
Looks like rain.

My dog is almost as old as me.
My dog is a good barometer for kindness
since it’s hard to love a velveteen rabbit.

Classic traits of an ESTP in my opinion include (1) interest in facilitating group harmony, frequently by presenting as light-hearted, (2) quick reflexes and good reaction time, (3) easy adaptability to nearly any situation, (4) willingness to do manual labor and maintain a small home radius, and (5) lack of critical foresight.

ESTPs also seem to love dogs.

God fucking
I can never tell if my instincts are right
If sometimes I have prophetic dreams
and sometimes frantic nightmares
How do I distinguish between
How do I know if someone’s plotting against me
I mean call me a mastermind but
it’s possible I’ve never masterminded a thing.
How do I know if he’s leaning in or away
What’s the difference between indifference
and interest

How many years
How many oceans must I fly over
I want to sleep in the sand with you
I want
I want

I’m obsessed with the fact you’re obsessed with
Purity
Oh what I could and could not embody
Not in your eyes
(in my position)
too compromised
to compromise

I see through him (you, yes you.)
If you wonder why
things are the way they are
you could always ask again
you could always approach me first

You’d claim it’s a coincidence
A conglomeration of comrades casually collecting
A den of thieves
Turned inward in your rabbit-skin shoes
“We had no intention to exclude”
We had no intention to include

You shop
In search of a pedestal for your heart
When a perfectly good heart-pedestal waits
and writes you letters on fresh new stationery
(Letters you never open)

“She’s a real piece of work,”
(could be said about anyone)
You know lots of troubled girls;
I’m troubled to be compared.

Remember
how you turned down the Shins
since you thought it was weird
I thought of you.

Admittedly on the surface
I’m not at all the one you need
(though like your past lovers,
one you might concede
wakes up your imagination
before sending you away)

(and the reason you keep searching
is because you find me
in every thin mouth
and pair of brown eyes)

He lies by omission,
ties his tongue like a kite-string,
its hold compelling enough
to drag me away.

While I wait in spring fields,
he’ll be in another flying,
in want of a landing place.