Untitled August
“AUGUST 2017”  

i had heard her song, a calling one
idle no more, girl
This song is yours to sing at will,
and maybe we may heal


what more can I say, 
these are 
the poems that I wrote
When I was too young to write-

time loosely recorded,
jelly of my changing mind
weird voice of my sense of self
it's almost like bottling up menstrual blood
because you can't say goodbye,
because you wanted to know her so bad

fleeting feelings of worth
moments of sovereignty
clarity past my years,
immature rage

it's moon
    time running down a leg
its scent of blood   a red dot on my map
always changing,
painfully seceding again

why i write;
a red dot
on your calf

when I said i couldn't let her go,
or my flower hurts when she bleeds

i meant, o my love, my dear world, my sweet air
i never want to sever

ceaselessly drippin out of me, float in the sewers
    the reality is that no one really reads my poetry.

droite comme un oiseau, elle appelle l'Amour

this is how I shed my skin
many times,
on my way to the core

consider this
mysterious liner notes
to a soundless cd

i was warming up my voice
taking baby steps
making flowers bloom

like poetry,
all singing is affectation,
licking a salt rock into form

my voice flows out like coals and reeds
uneven, wild -
goes unrecorded


i dive to the bottom of myself
and i”ll never fear depth again

i smoke myself inwards, paranoid and light
as a subvessel, i dive

i see me in the failing lights
self-absorbed, i confess

some rocks here are covered in
foul mosses, fine dust, molds

i had to see me for myself
i had to sink.

and I dreamt
you, of all, saw the secret in me

helplessly Rising tide

(its egoist to ask for stoneless mangoes
in yr rainforest shampoo paradise
so good in the picture with no insect)