July 8th, 2016.

July is the month of storm – the sky exhales.
It’s the month where restless meets still heat.
It’s the month where shadows trace down the back.
Like a warm hand right before it lights on fire.
Now the heat radiates from me. My heat is still.
My heat rests on my skin and causes me to shiver.
My heat I can feel in my palms. Eyes. Hair. Teeth.
My heat pushes out and I feel as if a blue sun.
The color of the hottest flame and largest star.
The burnt rain that rolls down my back evaporates.
The warm thorns cause a flood that cuts new paths.
The water is sharp. The wind, too solid, shatters.
Here is my rejection of their cool red touches.
I’ll eat and sleep and walk and breathe warmer.
Earth. I’ll set the table with ashes and stone.
Let the steam rise around you, cleanse your lungs,
Dew your face and skin, relieve your muscles and
Melt the ice and frost we covet far too much.
Let the warmth slow your heart, calm your mind,
Reach your hands after a long day. Wait. Wait.
Let the warm night bring an electric stillness.
Listen as the warmth creeps through the streets
And down the trees and into the city noise out
From those windows. Tonight is the warmest yet.
Sleep may not come. Does not come when there is
So much heat to have. The marks of warmth are
All over my skin and back. In my mouth. My ears.
Enjoy.

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Where.

Where “free” sits in your gut like rocks.
Where we believe the worst before the best.
Where we run from those who “help.”
Where a smile can turn into a nightmare.
Where we cling to those like us.
Where those who aren’t try to put us in our place.
Where everyone is “Too loud. Too angry.”
Where we’re “Too aggressive. Too much.”
Where we’re too this or too that but never enough.
Where bodies turn into Facebook banners.
Where “I stand with [blank]” is compulsory.
Where you don’t have to mean it though.
Where you don’t have to understand it though.
Where you support fighters but refuse to fight.
Where you clap others on the back for their sacrifices.
Where you choose to be a bystander.
Where it’s either follow your heart or your work.
Where it’s painful to truly do both.
Where it’s supposed to be a dream but
Where there’s barely any sleep.
Where we take what we can to not be where we are.
Where shadows mean more
Where the children are right
Where we should be scared IN the dark
Where we should also be scared in the light
Where the good guys — the good cops are Hate
Where we, us, the “bad guys” are family

Where I’ll kiss you any way I can because it might be the last time I kiss you or send you my love or send you a prayer or warm vibe or a shoulder to cry on where we constantly have to validate each other and check in on each other because it is not just about being a little sad it’s about making sure we aren’t dragged under the waves. Because just in case you aren’t there tomorrow and God when I wake up please be there — I look for you just to make sure you’re still here for another tomorrow. I love you too much to not fight for you and I’ll kiss you and kiss you and even if I hate you I’ll still kiss you just in case it will keep you here until tomorrow.

At Midnight We Won’t Care.

At midnight we’ll recite bad news headlines
At midnight we’ll point out where we’ve been
At midnight we’ll compare to-do lists
At midnight we won’t care.

At midnight we’ll disagree about music
At midnight we’ll take turns pouring coffee
At midnight we’ll take turns pouring liquor
At midnight we won’t care.

At midnight we’ll book plane tickets
At midnight we’ll read traveling books
At midnight we’ll be wide awake
At midnight we won’t care.

At midnight we’ll watch documentaries
At midnight we’ll dance at your friend’s house
At midnight we’ll write some music
At midnight we won’t care.

At midnight we’ll hear a neighbor shout
At midnight we’ll help them find their cat, Jo
At midnight we’ll look for better jobs
At midnight we won’t care.

At midnight we’ll ride bicycles together
At midnight we’ll whisper ghost stories
At midnight we’ll lie next to the pool
At midnight we won’t care.

At midnight we’ll claw with our heavy hearts
At midnight we’ll laugh with our lips touching
At midnight we’ll cease to exist
At midnight we won’t care.

The Cyborg’s Monologue

Did they not warn you that I was the cyborg death?
I know where the sea is not the sea.
I know where the air is thick with signals.
So many signals it takes such a long. Long. Time. To move.
Hm. To live in a garden full of still and silent angels.
Where I am the rabid dog, and you are the only human.
Rabid dogs don’t need skill on their side.
They don’t even need fear. They just are.
Pushed by biological desire. Foaming.
Un-mechanical as they come. Foaming.
No wires. No one groping for them.
No one hoping to learn more about them.
No desire to use them for anything. plan-less.
The only thing people have for the rabid dog,
Is the primal sense to get way. Terror.
And maybe a little pity. It is strange.
Why is it that humans are so repulsed by pity.
Pity is a manifestation of caring. Empathy.
Humans would do well to cherish pity closer than they do.
Did no one tell you that I am the cyborg, Death?
And you are the human with no skill. Pitiful.
Humans should revel in their pitifulness.
It’s a unifying weakness, in all that there is.
Now is the time to pray for the garden.
A garden full of still and silent angels.
A garden where I will not be, after digital death.
Free of the rabid dogs hounding you away.

2.0

My heart’s beating so fast,
but maybe I’m just being reactionary.
Red. Blinded by eye sight.
I’m tasting your mouth, lost, and a little dry.
What have you been smoking?
It’s not a pleasing taste, but it feels so nice.
Like silk, trailing down.
My skin is turning cold, ice by touch.
It freezes like I have no blood left.
Let me borrow some of yours.
You look a little lost. No one speaks to you,
but you’ve never had the urge to cry.
Where’d you get that rough touch,
like you’re going to work all the time.
Where’d you get that look. Cold.
Like you’re ready for the war to begin.
Looking at you makes my blood run cold.
Let me borrow some of yours.
I’ve never felt so exposed, so worn down.
But you always drink to me later.
You’re a furnace, trying to keep a burn alive.