the   way   you   looked   at   me;
haunting     as          though   I’m
merely     a                       form    of
prey.                    help                .hide
me   or                    I                  might
be    caught                      by   words
that   even     you     cannot    see.



She bites him with scorn and hypocrisy
and love. Stinging. Burn. Burn, baby burn.
Her coiling words slither down his throat,
snaking, silently, soaking through every pore
of his body.

Another boy, successful and modest, hits him.
Beats him. Brings him to his knees in surrender
the white flag being signaled by his bare limbs –
tapping the meaninglessness keys on his phone.

She provokes a smile, a wink, a wicked snarl of
comfort through language which destroys him.
Language which hurts.
Language which softens the blow of each blink
of the replies he watches, blowing up his phone.
“Welcome to the most dangerous
war zone of your life.”
Now, they don’t teach how to survive at school anymore.

You watch this unfold. Eating a snack, maybe some ice cream,
who cares? The little blue bird does, and its spreading like wildfire.
Shooting your friends – with photographs,
shots of your screen, which barely even capture
the emptiness you feel. The cold, creamy, fatal goodness
which flows through your blood.

You. Only live once. But what about when the words
become so much that even your own existence hurts.
The buzz of silence cuts your heart deeper than the blades
that you use. At least that’s what they say.

Deactivated yet?
What’s on your mind?

For sure, it’s not me.


I exhale this
….    diseased,
……         cleansed,
……..               slaved,
……….                  pure,

I feel the work of the plant on my desk
– the powerhouse –
mindlessly powering through
the emptiness of my internal organs.
Devoid of the touch of your skin
the thought in your eye //
the dilation
of your darkness.

My pencil cracks – the plant looks up
staring at I. It sighs.
So, I inhale. Breathe in. Refreshed
by the intense production of
natural (manufactured?)
o o o o oxy –

Ahhh. Refreshed. Cleansed. Pure. -plagued-
She sighs next to me. I can’t help but open my lungs
my heart staying closed. Every inch of my life
further away.

But she collapses. You fall with her.
I stand.

(but why am I still diseased by the corrupted air,
deadlier than the groan from your heart.
My throat is invisible as I can’t help.
Gasping, I can’t live)


Guilt for feeling rewarded, but unsatisfied.
I look to find a feeling of pride or warmth
but, like a tiger with no mane, or a bird
with no wings
how can I learn to fly?

Sure the skies may be pure,
their clouds fluffy and comforting
but like skin and flesh,
delicate and tactile –
comforted through discomfort
lost within the vastness
of ambition.

‘Achieve your dreams’ ‘Reach for the clouds’
but what if the clouds were nothing
but the mere reflected fogginess of haze
when I look in the mirror after I shower.


But clean? Are they the same?
Spiritual clarity –
Do you believe in hope? Or possibility?

When nothing is everything I could have wished for,
everything becomes nothing
and the clouds fall to the ground with the crashing noise
of waves on the beach
and the smash of a mirror
reflecting fragments of reality.

Seating Positions

A snide look from a smile of warmth
which was cold,
to touch –
but couldn’t be felt from across the room.

Hiding behind glances of distracted interest
as she teaches.
He looks but is invisible
until seen.

The silence was loud
but my awareness was louder
than the empty replies on my screen
of artificiality.

Yet somehow the screen was more real
more favorable
more intangible
more straightforward
than the glance of warmth
but the eyes of ice –
of pale hope.

I remember this look and that popular face,
that unpopular friend (who?)
the addition of 1 to make 2,
the other person (lost) –

Yet rejection is my favorite sensation.