four corners, a striking discovery with guest star 4 a.m.

This is when lungs are ashy and crumbling with every breath
This is when a swollen up battery within your heart pumps acid through your circulatory system
This is when the dead commit suicide
This is when words can’t help anymore, neither yours nor mine
This is when your nerve endings freeze from departing touches and then melt to useless arsenic spilling after someone tries touching you again
This is when the webs of your iris snap apart from constricted apathetic pupils
This is when your senses are begging for sensation
This is when your vocal chords get plucked too hard and your throat gets carved with stiletto knives
This is when the only thing keeping you alive is the picture of you from when you were a little child
Staring you down
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the house of hums and lullabies

I found love in flesh,
Curled up on my bed holding the darkest moment of 4 a.m., exhaling the seconds that I wish I spent with him.
I found love in definition.
He buried his every synonym in my skin,
And maybe in a year or so,
I won’t know how to speak this language anymore.
I found love in cigarette lungs and whiskey tongues,
In barely started stories, and bitterly ended poems.
Its promises of “one day” never came.
I found love in ghosts and missed eyes.
In words that held too many or no definitions.
Hold me the way you hold onto these dark words,  that amble around the inside of your skull.
Hold me like I’m pain, and you’re a masochist.

4 a.m.

I’m searching for daisies in the cracks of my heart because someone told me there was beauty in a breakdown. As I’m grasping the opaque moment of 4 A.M. drenched by my own tears, I lay next to the toilet vomiting because I can’t get myself together. Hours pass by and my eye bags are as puffy as crinoline, my nose is as red as hibiscus flowers, and my face is as pale as snow. Every feeling I have attempted to suppress rises from my stomach and into my throat like bile that mixes with regret and spews onto the floor.
I attempt to shrug all these demons off and tell myself that I am not the only one feeling this type of way. But the distorted memories of you engage with my functioning on a bi-weekly basis. I know it’s all just influenced by my fight-or-flight hormones rushing through my body. The long lasting flashbulb memories intensify my sadness, and slaps me down face flat on the lonely tiled bathroom floor. Sometimes the memories of you take hold of my fiber being to the point; I can’t recognize myself in the mirror. I know for once, that this is not a creation of a false memory. Its impact is broad. Its purpose holds. Its duration is long, and the capacity is large.
Now there’s this shadow that lingers above me, and I can’t help but want to reach it up and pull it around me. I became a weight that dragged on those I care about, so I cut the rope and watched them float into the sky above me as I fell below. I’ve spent most of my life admiring stars, wishing I could possess or become one, but instead, I became buried six feet deep and never saw them again.

2/5/17

A literary mess living from a suitcase, tripping over Tupperware full of dry cat food. Two are sleeping in a twin bed, the other two on a single cot. Bodies are covered in cat fur. 3 AM and his teeth is grinding. I clean off entitlement. I give. Then, there are two moths and one spider in the bathtub with a side of slow drainage. There’s the unhappy couple. Best bro friends squeezing a can of empty Icehouse beer. 3 trash bags by the door. The water pressure is non-existent. Vents are ripped out of the wall, throwing the room off. Frequent cat sex on ottoman. Frequent cat vomit and shit on the aged hardwood floor. A door that doesn’t stay shut. Can’t vibe with the girls because they’re all
Money
Makeup
and Materials
But I’m Au naturel.
No countertop space but enough for his $5.99 Dominican Club Vodka. Inconsistent sleep. It’s him or the dirty couch. Constant cartoons from his room. I voluntarily cramp my feet in bed. It’s most comfortable when pain is provided. Fans whirling overnight have become some sort of mantra just like the broke people complaining about being broke. I’m having my sense of luxury wearing my mother’s slippers and drinking two bottles of discounted La Marco Prosecco in the morning.
Check out these repeated stories, and fixed mindsets. Don’t forget to observe the games being played! Become the fool, it can be fun at times! What’s this? Checkout my permanent muscle aches. Check out that month old gummy bear on the floor. Become one with the eye sore!
Strands of my false blonde hair are uprooting into my tobacco filled larynx. There’s knifelike gravel in the rugged and grimy platform boots my server legs fit snugly in. I’m keeping plastic wrappers and convenience store receipts in the holes of my puffy, ash stained coat pockets. The living is sleazy.

looks deceive

I’ve seen
Aubergine eyes with sparks
Lips as soft as plumbago flowers
Auburn hair with flames
You’re nothing like that
But I still stare and talk to you
You however wear my love
Like a
brooch on a dress
Like an
adhesive beauty scar
Like it
adorns your vanity
Like you
take pride in knowing that I want you and you don’t want me back.

lady whitman on the streets

The city of Chicago caresses my body; giving me goosebumps to get me through the day,
The gogomobile honks sound like mellophone horns in F, an alert amplifying others (wake up dude),
The train breeze belts out to the restless by the edge of the racks, like fingers strumming through my hair,
The techno toot bounced the restless back to health, saved by the time,
The busker duo with soulful voices at ease with a bass, tangerine, and a backing track, a dollar deserved, a spacious tune traveling,
The considerate smoker gracefully lit his cigarette and strained Turkish tobacco to his side as passers walk by,
The bearded man pulling his lady close pecking, with a small coffee in his hand, a Honeymoon,
The earful of music for a scraggly man-dancing like he’s onstage while waiting for the bus,
The tide of commuters walking along to the rhythm of others, not too close, not too far,
The homeless man with rattling change in a plastic 7 eleven cup, a supplement to the soundscape,
The bookish, multitasking mother reading Angels with Dirty Faces, swaying the stroller,
The golden-haired Gemini, an air sign on the Gold Coast, the only light in her eyes was the city lights,
The tourists in love with every wrong turn they take joining in on the chorus,
The overly dressed man sitting at a McDonald’s by a stranger shuffling his feet, gazing to the window nearest,
The myopic oaf conversing with a group of art school students, asking questions about their upcoming short film (caring),
The car on standby by the semi-used up curb, call and response,
The grinning bystander’s agreeing to take a picture for a couple, their stance, grease lightening sturdy… photoflash,
The pacing woman circles around a trash can, a boast to her boy,
The attendee outside of the club alley coping with coke, dope, and choking fits, an ally appeared,
The loner with a twitching left leg observing the games being played, a side of laughter, in and out of love with the forget-me-nots,
The psychonaut painter with project stains all over his mom pants deems a ebullient dream tranquil, embelleshing clever brushwork,
The modes of flies flowing in roves like oceans, encircling flight, relating with the scurries of personages,
The young flourishing within present moments, announcing their visions of success,
The scurried waitress serving rum and coke in sepia sandals, refining an order in chimes,
The concession stand supplies foibles to the packed pops, keeping it spick and span,
The wind breathes and the birds listen, accepting the earth’s wisdom, a free association conversation,
The victims of chance at random, a predictable waltz with ever-changing tunes,
The designer looking around, licking her dabbed lips, jotting down notes, stem suited like an electronic mosaic,
The trunks and leaves stretching up to a hundred feet above an elder’s head, the man small compared (a reminder) to the greenery, puffs away,
The construction worker, waiting to receive his energy for the afternoon, instantaneous wide eyes after the sip is received, he is ready to renew your world,
The caretaker slowing down, giving granny a chance to make it to the race, a short-lived smile at her attempt,
The trio of bikers blasting past with 90’s rap, in running formation,
The Planned Parenthood volunteer, prepared to donate their words, persistently he reels in a young professional, in exchange a subscription for good,
The sun coming down through miles of skyscrapers, fragmented like a pointillist painting, speckled shadows and luminous light,
The reassuring afternoon of a perpendicular peace, steak scented, with gogomobiles fleeting by incorporating pneumatic sound effects,
The new resident seeking something greater than themselves,
The tremulous poise of a kiddie, taking big boy steps onto the bus,
And the brush of a stylish, sleek Chicagoan on the L train cures loneliness,
And as the city engulfs my soul, I still have plenty of soul to give,
And in these recycled paths, I learn to love trash, I bury myself in it until the stench no longer lingers.