Cauterized, Sealed, Vaccumed and Open now for a Limited Time Only

why do anger
and depression
hold hands
like immersed lovers?

Even after a half-awake
disapproval of my
hormonal emotives,
you tell me
I seek reassurance
by expressing
my commited spirit.

I can admit
that I do wonder
what parts of me
you notice
or if I'm wasting
your time
better yet
mine

My soul is in retrograde
back to when 18
seemed like
peering off the
chert faced clifts
and the only leap
that I could make
was towards his
eyes.

Today the equinox
is a reminder
that 25 is swiftly
pickling my toes.

And like 18
I've come full circle
in reverse to
an open organ
that was once
cauterized,
sealed and vaccumed
before I met you

Like a flash
from a Roman candle,
I cracked open and lit up
in order to save myself
from growing stale,
and in return
exposed my underside
to you.

Without bed,
with foundation,
without slumber
without out damn spot
I sit down calmly
but fester about the
relationship
between
anger
and depression,
do you not remember
when you have sat
in this same seat?

Re-check the facts

[I know you're disappointed,
I feel it in my bones.]

I had to think a spell
and I haven't forgotten about
your generosity nor how
your heartstrings and soul linen
is washed in the same load
as mine.
I hope now you see me as human
as your mistakes make you.

You are strong but even in your strength
I know you still find pictures that
you've tried to forget.
At times we both have regret
and the collision with empowerment
sets us on a course of bitterness.

When you're cut from the same cloth
you don't have to say much
for me to understand
what you're trying to say.

The life cycle of a Locust

As the locust spins its wings and arms
I attempt to move carefully with daddy
longlegged precision.
I have this ache that moves
in between
stones and boulders,
it flows over the houses where I've slept
and escaped from like maggots
that inhabit the dead
locust it's used as its' egg sack.

I've watched my choices secrete
this ache like my uterus
that sheds its' anxious lining
monthly; I am now everywhere
within my ecosystem.

In the reflective eddy's
I realize that as my ideals
have become my drive,
they're inconsistent with
the facts.
I'm held in place
by my own thumb tacks,
I'm a transferable skill
in a grassland of filled
occupancies.

My love that I give is not seen
as an asset to the one who
receives it but doesn't see it.
So I question all of my seething
and hopeful motives
because pressure to hold
on to the good is like a rubber resistor
to the million and a half volts
that I conduct with patience
through it.

All that I share though will not
be lost in my lifetime
but like Oscar Wilde or Pablo Picasso,
I must endure through
the suffering to which I admit,
is my life,
is my doing/undoing,
my sacrifices
but not my martyrdom.

The Earth which carries
the burden of its cycles
and never complains
and only continues to
regenerate; I am just a
b l i n k

I cannot help my transparent eyes
that swell like Sicilian
grapes left to ripen
in the Mediterranean climate.
I am a part of this system
of inconclusion,
this post-modern sequence of
repetitive conjunctions
and it matters not
that the moon is waxing
towards her opaque boundaries.

I am suffering through this
tidal filtration,
I am spinning my locust wings
before the death of fall
turns me back into soil.