I see

There are things that weigh heavy on me
like the pressure that comes from diving too deep,
as unwanted as predators camouflaged in suits
circling sidewalks to peddle their convictions,
that we are all convicted unless we adopt mutual opinions.
Like squeezing blood from a stone
life leaves me slowly, icing from a bakers piping bag
only not as sweet, not as purposefully put together.
There are things that press unbearably,
pulling back only when suffocation is imminent
when the amount of myself left
can be measured in teaspoons
and the curved tusks of my torso
sound the splinter that precedes a break.
A strange and intimate relationship do I entertain
with the heady impressions that life projects onto my mind,
all the small deaths endured, the tragedies observed
as unhealthy as it is satisfying
like fetish sex with a prostitute
because you've caught your past trailing after you
like a second shadow
and this is the only way you can get off.
I see a woman made of watercolor
watery eyes and soft paper skin
she must have dried this way, sitting at a bus stop
thin mouth dripping into chin
a drooping slit that belies the happiness she's had
chest dripping into the curves of hips
once indescribably useful
(to her husband who left proof of his love there
and to her sons who borrowed the lines of her life to create their own)
they're made of plastic now, or lay broken beneath the skin
like the english she no longer attempts
like loved ones resting beneath the crust of the land.
Her life has been full of cracks
and everything has fallen through, gotten lost
like eastern seas sifting in her memory
through a bounty of unbound hair.
I watch an ambulance part traffic
ambling uncertainly
even as the child it attempts to reach
who with wild pride unraveled the mystery
of a lock
and ran laughing into traffic.
I have no control over this ramshackle house
whose windows are too well used
whose walls are riddled with holes and a door that wont close,
all manner of things creep in and bed down in the floor boards.
I watch a homeless man who doesn't beg
but poses on a bench
resigned to a life that is too longly lived.
A young woman is kept awake at night growing pain in her eyes
and stains beneath her black lashes like smudges
of the toxic thoughts she cycles through,
the moment before I die will I regret my life
is everything flavorless or am I loosing my desire to taste, to try.

bone deep cold

My extremities are full of ice
bone deep cold rattling me like a bag of baby teeth
saved in the despair of some unfathomable nostalgia
rag doll hung out to dry in winters whistle
the wind cuts me to the quick
no relief, not even in an ocean of cloth
poured over me endlessly like layers of terra firma,
oh were I the metal core
radiating heat like our sun
but I have found myself more akin to the moon
always hiding herself half in shadow
with no one to lean on but the earth
who pushes from so far away.
Something spreads through my veins
like saline pumped into a network of life sustaining roots
they spider and weave their way around ice and bone alike
and everything cracks and breaks like glass under the pressure of sudden change,
cant be moved too quickly between extremes, from cold to heat,
but body is mendable and eager to be remade, reset
by the expert, sure mind and steady hands.
I need to bathe in flames like the salamander
to be split by lightning and burned from the inside,
reborn like new growth that forms where the struck tree rots.
Roast me, find my corners and cook me through,
as a previously frozen cut of meat,
taste me, I'm edible
despite my unfavorable means of self preservation.

production

Where did you go
slipping away from my eyes
to become more like yourself.
I  sulk to have missed the process,
and though Im divorced from the project
im still a consumer harboring curiosity
as to how these snacks were created,
maybe someday ill see the presentation
that expresses each step of your creation.
Will my face flash by in the process
am I in the beginning middle or end
of your production, fabrication.