this is a serenade
to red high heels
pony ass

this is a serenade
to bruises and brokens
beatdown ass

D.H. Lawrence
rocking horse
queer and haunting like 1922
(you know you know)
opium ass

once upon a time
said an indigo stick
said a two-day moth
said a limp wristed cragg

this is a serenade and i haven’t been able to sleep and my armpits are sweaty and i smell like a woman like a woman like i never meant to smell all cunt and musk and underbreast wet and this is a serenade to cliff dives and muffdives and holiday hills
this is a serenade and i forgot where i began and my mind double tracks and loses tracks and never used to be like that and they’ll say one day they’ll say oh she’s smart as a whip (beatdown) she’s sharp as a tack well how’boutthat oh they will say that when i shake and applesauce drips from lips and the kids volunteer to take me for a walk (pony ass)
so i can’t help that all i think about is death queer and haunting like 1982 queer and haunting like naps when i should be living crying fucking dying blahblahblah

this is a two day moth
dusty and broken
heaving into the cracks in my hands
into lifelines
into palms
who cradled and curled
and stuffed and suckled
and all the other wonders of hands
and now
tattered wings disintegration
and dropping my eyelids in
i crush moth-pillow
all mine
rocking horse
all mine
distant memories
maladies and serenades
so thorax and exoskeleton
and quashed into lashes and hanging from my eyelids and amphibious tongue reaches (pony ass)
and all kohled up and sexy i’m ready to greet the world
i’m ready to meet my maker
i’m ready
(beatdown)

between no name and meek
i thought about you
picked at my cuticles
and busied myself with the left-side moon

at rifle i hit a dust storm
which lasted until silt
splayed across my eyelids
on this seaside of the mountains
and you’re over there and i’m over here
thinking about whiling away the winter here

locked into a camper trailer
i could pack myself down under the arch of red
and imagine i never knew you
pretend it’s winter two years ago
and i am so sweetly fulfilled by your absence
and not lacking

lattice slats
shadow my view like you
in light in dark
crisscrossing my summer
if you’re not too busy being the sun in my sky
will you be the flowers in my garden
you’re taken root in my earth
i know that the seasons will change
i know that the seasons will change
i will clip the pieces of you that are wilted
you will find solace on the sea
but the roots will still be
dormant but deep
they will seep
into the sands here
outside my trailer
between my junk pile
my burning tires on my left
my burnt out neon on the right

but i just passed meek
i’m in the cradle of the desert now
the desert that rocked me softly into adulthood
and burned me brutally through my adolescence
the desert
with the moon
the cliffs
the little candle in my trailer window
i will burn here
my skin will change forever
and it will have something to do with you
no shedding can change that
it’s July and i’m burning
burning until the ashes of my fingertips
fall into the soft desert sand

it’s meek and no name
and that’s who i want to be
friendless
in a trailer with the howling
and the sand
to blow my ashes through
i want the bluff i’ve been
to see
the dry riverbed reflected
in the moon’s watery gaze
first dark then light
crisscrossing my winter
on this flatbed trailer
where i lay my remains
to whisper my dreams to the moon
to speak of heartaches just soft enough
so the coyotes don’t hear
so that the wolf at the door
of my January trailer
doesn’t sing to me
of twenty-six years of heartache
doesn’t vomit ashes of meek into my garden

it’s just that it’s midnight
and i’m somewhere between you and me
and the moon is pouring ashes through my fingertips
turning the mountains into a dust storm
and it’s not January
and the arches in the snow are just like
the latticework of
you across me

i’m sweating in July
no home but my garden
my burning tires cradled in the desert sky
no wolf
no whispers
just a rifle
and i’m thinking
it’s a good day to die
ashes
sand storm
moon.
it’s a good day to die

same same keep riding the wind through all the holes in my story i want to be found out i want someone to notice iím a fraud to push through the boundaries of my own bullshit slap across the face and say ìyou hate yourself and you love yourself and the combination is deadlyî then i would listen or at least stop talking

self importance will be my ruin is it nobler to give up all and live a patched existence eating half cooked rice and drippy tea calling myself zen carrying a walking stick and crouching to piss

or nobler to: live big live proud say what i know and be proven wrong? what is the truth of my truest situation when the one who slaps glares at her hand and sees that its attached this is the density of which i speak if i eliminate the i this is the intensity of which this girl speaks - this slave girl to her own thoughts this house boy to her own dreams

will they be surprised this girl wonders why not this woman what does this woman think about being called this girl better yet how does she feel?

when you want to stop because you feel emphasis has been found but you follow directions or follow the flow of life so the speak so to speak you goddamn sheep just sleep to live the life you think you live just sleep to live sleep to dream the worldwide reaping of false philosophies the dreamkeeping weeping of real lust and lethargy

thats a cream of the dream licking out the center between the cream disks licking out the center of the little pink slip

what awareness comes to the girl when her heart stops and shes just a mouth a tongue a hole a whole body mind sensation but only in the thought world reality pauses so she can let off steam…