Flower Child in the Desert

prizes for fucking

and more of a job

no exception

my mug has the whim to disobey

of water--taste me

ten 1000-piece puzzles strewn about the floor the moment before you remember what you forgot to remember a million tabs loading on a fritzy screen poorly-placed "one way" street signs the pencil in the sharpener (I can't tell if it's ready) right before it breaks every disappointed lowering of eyes and fall in tone the blinking lights on the router do they even have a pattern the sequins you'll inevitably find if you buy that silly dress the ten poor reviews despite the ninety good ones a dissertation when only a proposal was required a list prefaced by a foul-tasting coffee with three shots of espresso but no motivation (and i don't even like coffee)

to be continued as needed...

i’ll make sunday’s wash

an eggshell sanity is still a clean slate-- a porcelain mask is still a  flawless cover-- construction is the  easy part, just promise not to chip away at my “i’m fines” 

pouting, thin, timid, assertive--I  fancied myself the  taster of a thousand stories on a  thousand lips--but ephemeral  relations can breed insecurity can breed omissions of truth--(barely conducive to the baring of  souls)--I suppose everything is temporary and even our lips will be  gates to only so many breaths--so  with the inhalations the universe  grants me and the exhalations my body can muster, let me read between  your lines for our story is the only I wish to forever taste

satisfaction from the strangest things: your  pocketknife on my  dresser, my necklace on your nightstand, that mixed cd I made a year ago still in your car, that “maybe I should buy two” thought that comes when you aren’t there, the last bottle in  the fridge from that six-pack we drank a week ago-- I find satisfaction in the commingling of lives, of  our lives, and maybe that  isn’t so strange after all