Resistant Chill

Stinking summer breeze,

Leave this realm!
I cannot abide by the casual slaughter
of friendly nasal cavities
and cozy blankets.

The fortitude of winter
is never enough.
Burning through the
blue glaze of peace
shouting at us all to
sprout anew, live again as if
light actually exists.

Damn heartthrob in the sky
pulsating your matriarchal heat
across all landscapes
allowing your sister
to watch us while you
stun the rest into painful,
aching life.

Leave us be, to our cold reverie.
Drift to a collection of sentient stardust
more deserving of your heat.

Sweet, lost mother,
your unconditional presence
your unblinking gaze of a love so pure
our eyes sour
from looking for too long.

Etched into my shoulders
are your fingerprints.
Connecting them resembles
the families of faraway stars
who laugh at your cause
who tear up
knowing your mission is never done.

Soul of summer
breaking apart the destitute ice
trailing from wrist to chest–

Fine!

The red resin of existence
will be free to roam within me.

I owe you that much.

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Crush

Riddle me with your incomplete sentences.

Crease the last letter
you thought to leave beneath
the mattress
a secret admirer
only found between
changed sheets and
fingers tipped with
daydreams
afternoon interlude,
faded release.

Face me like a heart.
Open and close at the rate
of bus fare handed
to the driver who
sees you run
and stops to
tie your shoes into
a fatherly knot.

Give me the soul of your last sleepless night.
Pour it slowly into my cup
such that I can smell each yawn and
caress every droplet of the words you

only sell to yourself.

I know.
It is worrisome
to let it drum
bit by bit at the bottom of the glass
moments stretched, bare,

uncut grass.

How are you to know
I’m not just another mower
hired to snip at your growth, or
step carelessly on
your most closely held
solar?

I am the breeze.
I want to feel each feather of you
bent, perfect, blessed or pressed thin, overgrown, under rested. Tied and left in backroad gardens, exposed and erased, rewritten in jargon.

The way you fly…
I sing it.

I could write to you
every summer melody and
pardon my reality
the simple rain and drought of green
It will never render me

water,
but dive in–
dream.

Innocent Distance

Tripping over my own indecent socks
I admonish my toes in alpha numeric order
I don’t know which one I stubbed first but

it definitely did not happen

while I was reaching

for the swing set smile

in your eyes.

 
the blatant disturbance
between your shoulders
reeks of lost walk ways.
we drank Gatorade
as a method of supplying
our eyelids with brighter colors
and
being so young
who could know
electrolytes aren’t used
in defibrillators.

Bring me back
to your blue sheets.
Teach me red
and don’t starve,
blink.

My hands used to be
so content with
keyboard racing but
now I can’t seem to regret
holding you captive in my head
wrapping arms around
a frame of the mind’s design
enticing smiles and
feeling the lips turn
against my skin–
red
touched
lips.

Your collarbone is a roadmap
upon which my fingers could
scout out every landmark
sending the coordinates
to my mouth.

Create with me
a single night.
Let us both collide
maybe
the stillness of your feet
will fall away at the
whispers underneath
your neck.

I
can sing to you
with nothing but my tongue
inciting
harmony
deep within
your stomach
notes strolling casually
up through the throat
greeting your hot breath
as you decide
to allow the refrain
a taste of its own
chorus.

First of course
those legs of yours.
hiding behind nets and
cages of silk.
One hand remains free and
bought tickets
to your knee.
Those fingers have
been dying to hike
the snow covered summits
leading to the
single flower
where symphonies can be strung along
by tongue as well as tone.

The hips of you
begging to be
jailed by palms and tips as
locks and keys
suddenly there
isn’t air
it’s pressed from you
your garden blooms
filled
with a new warmth
refreshing like sunlight
rigid as river stone,

you

moan.

The Earth of you
collapses
revealing the core
[as we both rain–
but what is rain
when stripped
of atmosphere?]

Dear,

walk me to your window.
The breeze will cool
the sunset pools
lain bare
between the tresses
of your heavy lashes
and sunburst sighs.

Ember eyes,
burn me away
so I might live again
to douse you
with the songs
of “stay”.

#FlyMyLoves

Singing to a thousand faces

I toss every voice I know into

a void of endless smiles

of pains, felt along the crevices of

otherhood, womanhood, manhood.

The misplaced fist of oppression

deigning itself an authority

as if the very fact that it is a fist

gives it power.

 

I feel your lips,

opening to release any amount of faith

into this unforgiving plane of

anonymous palms,

knuckles laced with

ignorance

and iron.

 

I see you all there,

still smiling.

You’ve been hurt too many times to

release such blooms of

every single color

that ever made

a heart swell.

Yet, here you are.

Perhaps your mouths aren’t

spread, but pursed.

You can’t fool me, loved one.

You’re still smiling.

Beneath your glowing face

is an even brighter being of

calm acceptance.

 

“My time has not come.

I cannot soar as easily as those

born with the ‘correct’ structure,

the ‘optimal’ wingspan,

decided long ago by birds

too tricked by their own ‘flight’

to consider swimming

to even whisper the word, no–

they would rather the world had no water at all

than accept there are those of us

who swim.

And yet here I am.

The sky is no longer out of reach, for

our hearts have become the sky.

Together, we swim in our own

grinning, multicolored ocean.

For you see,

you silly, two-winged, single-beaked birds,

There was never flight.

There was only travel.

You put that name there

to keep us out

to make us feel as if

we could never touch the clouds.

 

I say this with love–

fuck you.

We will bring the clouds down here with us

and playfully dress them up

as your enraged fists.

Watch as they burst into nothingness

against the waves crashing

over our pool party.

Maybe once you accept Travel,

and calm down about your

traditional wingspan–

which NO ONE is attacking, by the way–

maybe then you can come to our party.

 

But you had better bring

a shit ton of floaties

and be prepared to accept

that every single one of us

was born beneath this sky

and none of us have the right

to define

‘flight’.”

 

(Pluto Poems 4) Corona

I don’t want to orbit the sun anymore.

 

Her warmth is poison to me

you see its easier to simply

float alone, frozen than

pick away at the nitrogen ice

 

in hopes that one day

you’ll find the central core of life

that hasn’t been there all along.

 

I am rigid.

Her mere closeness

breaks me.

If I were to crash land into

her Saturday and

stay a few nights with

arms to caress and

cheeks to kiss, then

perhaps learning to swim

in my own chest

wouldn’t be so maddening

 

but there is no Saturday on Pluto.

There are no ponds, no lakes.

Streams or creeks, whispering sweet

lullabies to the moons.

 

I am forged of broken, stiff

glacial indifference.

 

Please, you wretched hydrogen star…

 

My fingers are not even flowers

yet they wish to bloom

along the fields of your

corona.

(Poems of Pluto 2) Setting with the Sun

“Well fuck being a planet.”

Pluto is one asteroid

known for being in denial.

 

If you had ever sat by a creek

for three hours with the sun

in the middle of the night

you would agree.

 

If you had walked on sore feet

introducing the sun to edibles

forgetting you weren’t floating

you would know.

 

Bought the sun

pizza from its childhood

and given her that extra piece

you would ache.

 

Watched the sun get sleepy

beneath a Charmander blanket

while Rick and Morty played

you might understand.

 

You cannot.

You’ve never been

a planet turned asteroid.

Have you?

No.

Watch all the sunsets you want–

you will never know

what it is to be the clouds that surround

as the sun sets to rest.

A Dwarf Fell for the Sun

Yesterday, I closed the space

between the sun and I.

Matter and planets apart, the light

too faint to feel, to taste–

to trust as light at all.

 

I hugged the sun,

the warmth of her filling every vein

making my blood feel

as if it were more than ice, rock.

 

The sun looked me in the eyes,

and I saw Home.

Familiarity

long since buried

in the tresses of my backlogs.

 

You could never know

the skin tone of the sun

like I do.

My eyes

took every opportunity

to devour what they could

before the setting,

before my melting.

 

When one sees the sun from afar,

checks on the sun’s snapchat

browses

old pictures of the sun

that didn’t make you fall long ago–

you at least had the distance to keep you safe.

 

Closing that space is

dangerous, painful,

intoxicating, immeasurably

hot.

 

I used to have other stars

who filled what they could of my skies.

Don’t we all eventually

settle for the light pollution

calling that warmth?

 

My hands had been numb for every orbit

to have them thaw

only emboldened

that long dead need

to touch.

 

I wanted to burn myself.

Give my body to the sun and

entwine myself within her limbs,

get lost in my

Tombagh Regio

as the galaxy charred and

fell down around us.

 

It goes without saying

the sun doesn’t date Pluto.

Though it made the trip,

the purpose was only to finally meet a planet

who, in fact,

did not obsess over the solar flames

falling around the face

of nova

of birth

of the beginning of life.

 

Pluto keeps their distance

shaming itself into not needing heat, when really

it would kill to be Venus.

 

“Pluto would surely be destroyed

if it were closer in the solar system.”

The thing is,

Pluto believed them.

But as the sun drifted away

promises of return on the

lips of God herself,

Pluto had naught to reach for

but his own hands

grasping at the leftovers

Flinching at the re-freezing

of subsurface oceans.

 

They say Pluto experiences

its own unique weather patterns.

That it does not rain.

Today, Pluto looked in the mirror,

phone at 10%,

eyes purple, misty.

 

Today it rained.

Each droplet punctuated

by a slow simmer of thunder

dripping from the shaken dwarf

Pluto, glacially fissured, realized

 

“I’m not even a planet anymore.”