problem drinker.

and there it sits, 

that half empty bottle,

and it wasn’t meant for a special

occasion, like a baptism or funeral or in between,

but it was meant to be. 

And She rolls around in your mind, 

though you can’t say her name,

for familial reasons

(thanks D [and if you say you know this, you reveal a lot]), 

so you just sip quietly

and think of how not bad it is,

and that makes a lot of difference,

to compare and contrast

like fifth grade math. 

It is better,

and that’s what you asked for,

when you went back to praying

for any kind of sign. 

Maybe the sign was the kind of dog your ex wanted,

the one you wanted everything with,

and the one you love agreed

but had addendums

that were actual improvements

so you stay

every day

and the routine is more like a massage 

and the rules are lore and legend at this point

so you keep believing

in it 

every day

one day 

at a time. 

I am (year of the snake)

like a serpent, not in

the metaphorical

but very physical

as a creature making due without legs

on land.

You are

like snakes

at a throat,

or in a basket,

I can’t decide which,

for a year of self-portraits

done with invisible ink.

I am an anaconda killer,

not literal, but literature-wise,

a concept I hope you

grasp in the night after terrifying movies,

a chill you feel when you exhale through pitch screens,

a dull numbness you claw at in the darks of truth.

Poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

poetry is always subjective,

some art is not.

7/17/16

I don’t know how to make you

not make me

hypomanic. 

Glass cargo trucks carry

big boulders across 

dessert storms

and I am supposed to perform

as if

we aren’t all paper mache puppets

and you did not

laugh the same as I did

and I did not 

wipe

snot off your face when you were drunk in the bathroom

and I am supposed to not

understand your hurt

because common social graces dictate

that I hold steady

but I am a wave

and I am always forward

until I am back

and I run on for so long

with an undertow. 

If you press sand long enough

on the shore or elsewhere

it turns translucent

and these shards were removed from my feet long ago

but I keep them in a jar

to run through my palms when you call,

just a reminder why

I stay so far

from what you sea.