The Rule Is This

bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety, borderline personality disorder Photo by Jacob Mejicanos on Unsplash

I am not a rule or a thumb
I am after the math changes
like when he cums and then leaves

on the black pavement, they don’t move –
they are yellow and dead
and glued by storm

without lightning, I cannot burn
without worship, I am empty
words do not matter

but I want them all
the words
the matter
the exalt

If I bleed out – don’t scream at me
for doing it wrong

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Blackwater

in here

oxygen has stopped moving
a body is melting over a dream
that is alive and well
an intention

blackwater

we intertwine like parasites
we love like decay

i could be convinced to move out of here
but every moon begs for this same
consistency

and I am no moon

between a bullet and a knife

poetry, suicide, depression, mental health, bipolar disorder

it’s just like a gunshot

these hot words in my head that force
blood to move

for once I am not tar

and the girl on the back of this page
she is certain
I will find a way

she sings it “goes on and on”
and it will

If I don’t stop it myself

If We Could

still-life-with-pomegranate
talk about orchard red petals on wood tables
plate upon each other
soft eggs whispering to candle wax and I am

just buried in wallpaper
trapped in a past life
guessing on about oil in still life canvas

on a second thought my eyes shift
to roll back
and he slithers up toward my lips

because if he could he wouldn’t exist
yet here we begin
just two pieces of black ice
melting pastels into sunset

and if we could get it back together
from memory – where it is what it was –
we would pluck tiny pellets from
pomegranates in winter
for juicing

individually

without each other

January

coffee-1711431_1920
I’ve settled on darkness. Where some cluster of lonely iris might climb through my tear ducts for solace, i empty space and time. 

She is on her way, like last years’ frost bite she brings her shards of cold. One year, I begged her not to go but some things are not always. 

Oh, she is constant. In her gray dress of mist and seasonal affection, she blends in with reality but time doesn’t stop for anything. 

Once her smoke blows over capped mountain tops, I turn away from him, wrinkled from exhaustion. This effort, this tremendous light encompassing mine – I am minimal.

Nothing. 

Lemons Rinds and Jack

milky-way-923801_1280
It will always be walking through tough cement, lemon rinds and jack-one swift sailor high on a Black Sea 

drifting for eternity, fighting off starvation, making friends with an idea.

Love is not sold on silent blue moons or Ancient Greek mistresses riding them bareback

but deep inside a reflection, an abbreviated determination that divides calm nights.

I watch you pray for those hours. God isn’t listening;

He is creating. 

Coquette

it doesn’t matter that she is blank
to you
i see her
scribbled in fine
point

so many want her
temptation
I am not alone

in this I have thought
about her since
childhood

so many have had her
some by accident
or not – no matter –
when she craves
a taste of you
she will have you

some do not want her
cold caress
stealing their breath

but others – like me
flirt with her heavy
want
zero our rifles
just enough
to taste silver
before