Denied Journey of Preservation

For ten days, you’ve
been human, un-

Deny no journey,
even when the palpable
state disappoints.

why are you always

Step down into the
steep day of weaved palms,
palmed kisses on your face
and that obscured sense
of recognition that haunts
your inevitability,

the small lifeless women
you imagine yourself to be: 

What would she
the search for
dealing with the world?

 Tarot cards stuck in the
back pocket of her jeans.
Rotten scars of poetry
stitched inside her wrist-

attempts at discovering
meaning, truth, preservation.





A Crossed-out Gen X (=unhappy)

 Are you unhappy?

We should be used
to this by now,
this question,

the way the world
falls apart on itself
so easily.

How it laughs at us.


Unhappy, when we spend
an exorbitant investment on
a degree, only to waste the
rest of our days sitting at
an office, that is,

if we’re lucky enough
to get an office job.

Idle servants of unpaid
emotional labor.

What do you plan
to do with your life?


 Life taunts us again.
Expects you to become
a person in its lonely center.

No education can prepare us
for that sort of descent.


Are you unhappy?
Our mothers may ask us,
then gift us with the hope
that we may attempt
the chronicling of self-


In the end, capitalism
always makes a profit
off of our misery.


Sex with you
is wreckless,

In less than a week,
you devour weakness

tenderly—finger to finger
you lick me, brush my

rippled nipple, tickled inside
the wash of your lips, teeming.

Your chest tastes hard.
I bite it again, star it until

your ribs bloom scarred caresses,
careless starlings rushed with red,

until they bleed
a toothed enrapture.

Mirrored Asphyxiation

The mirrored dandelion
commits itself to famine.

Hazardous commitment
to the slippery life of
chiseled seeds, collided

eyes, take me
home again, tickle the nipple
hollow, until I’m screaming,
bleeding, until thorned branch

chokes you with a gasping
kernel, a reflected image
of yourself kissed with
suffocation, oscillated
motion wanting the collision

inside of yourself, inside
your mouth, an excavated

Stolen Lost

Lost is stolen
from you.

A slot for lack,
a called need
for the things you
can never name
nor have.

Tossed disorientation
drifts in the hidden
sail of a more obscure,
accessible gleam,

the sobs silent amplitudes
of here, take this, suffocate
rest, that spasmic torment,

cure a deadened ripple
of a smile, yes this is
real, you tell yourself.

Skip a stoned tone
on the surface of your
voice, inaudible creature.

Echoes are lost things

Numb tingles,
inaccessible gleams,
skipped stones already
sunk before the resonant