A shy boi
hair in their vision
posture hunched
though it doesn’t make
them any shorter.
The only thing duller than
their hair and their skin
are the tears on their face
dry and flaking off with
a rigorous rubbing of the eyes
(they never see me cry
so they don’t think I do.
When I break down
it’s a long time coming
and a complete surprise.)

At thirty they feel more
like a child than at twenty.
Strange, how they experience aging
while going through it
while wishing it was just
or downwards
or sidewards
or nowheres.
(I wish time were like
a videogame.
Moments saved precipitating events
or just a bathroom break.
Forgotten when not needed.
Revisited to see how
the characters fare.)

If they were honest they
wouldn’t know how to explain
it, the pain and the suffering
of being alone or different
by choice and by indifference
by the pressures to conform
against the urges to rebel against
the things that make
it worth it.
(How can I raise myself
when I understand me
as low?
When I raise up others
do I sink?
Can I stop it?
Do I want to?
Could I reverse it?)

They look, downcast, in
the general direction of heaven
for a moment sure it’s
a trick of the curtain of hair
but it’s not there anymore
maybe it never was.
Lovers as fanciful illusions
dancing through memories
CGI fairytales added in editing
in delusion. If they understood
themself as a delusion
would it make them
any less real?
(Would I love myself
if it wasn’t me? Could I
give my heart to me
if I weren’t taking it in return?
Am I the wall or is it me;
if it were someone else would I
know how to feel?)

Less reconciled and more
They tuck into the covers murmuring
אהבב וחמלה וחוכמה ואהבב וחמלה וחוכמה ואהבב וחמלה
(Wisdom is perceived by others
and rarely by the self;
otherwise, it isn’t truly
it’s simply something

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If my ideal self
is to embody

how do I do that
without the divine
in my head?

אם הייתי אשה
עם גישה לנשיות
מה שאני

would I be the same?

What’s the difference?

I wish I were a woman
not because I couldn’t be
אלא בגלל
לא הייתי כואב

בין לבין

Someone put me
out of my goddamned misery
and either cure or kill me.

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Kisses across Kool-Aid Cocktails
fluttering eyelashes on a sea of blue.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder
swirling vision helps it too.

Laying low on little lawns
wishing I were in the sky.
Writing acrostics in the clouds
as though I couldn’t just fly.

Missing mushrooms munched at dawn
reality irrelevant
once I was high but now? No longer.
I find I’m much too arrogant.

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If I were a lover
I would stink
Drinking whiskey on the hour
just to make your dick shrink
Holding my breath
“One more waking moment
till there’s meaning making

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We die little deaths
every day.
When you feel
ice down your throat
no moisture to speak of
you’ve died
in another life.
Another you.
Another time.
Another universe.

Sometimes I forget
which one is me
which one is them
which one is alive
which one is dead.

How can you tell
when the flash is as lifelike
as it happening to you?

I’m too connected
but if I closed my eyes
I’d crash anyways.
I can’t save myself
then or now
so why do I try?

Let me slip in consciousness.
Let me smell the burning
taste the crunch.
Maybe I was happy then.
Maybe I could be happy again?

Happiness is a temporary state characterized by
I only have access to one of those things.

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over happiness
over friends
over mindfulness
over education

Pull it from the garbage can.
Chuck it in the rubbish bin.

(If I can’t dance on a rainbow
under moonbeams
I won’t dance at all)

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Dark hair glistens
in fluorescent lights
fingers tapping
120 beats per minute
letters on the screen
breaths mix with words
drones to ears.

What do you do to succeed?
Drive yourself with success.

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mist on the water
tree on the jetty
heart starts to falter
visions of heaven

drinking in white noise
swallowing smog
waiting to earn poise
forgetting it’s gone

holding my breath
catching the fall
thinking what’s said
saying it all

days overlap
on green consciousness
raked by sleep
and learned hopelessness

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God paints
with light.
We see the colors
and the brush strokes.
We see the influences
and the statements.
But we rarely
see Them.

(I see God in
gender and sex
open me up
and deposit both

I wasn’t made
to paint
but be painted.
I wasn’t made
to draw
but be drawn.
It is not within me
to design
I am a divine design.

(I drink God,
kiss Them,
brush Them,
hold Them.)

I am not of
or from Them.
I am where They go
to paint.

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If the sun rose
gold in the sky
I’d hold it dearly
to my breast.

If I could kiss
as well as I cry
I’d be well known
as one of the best.

If men would love me
or if I were less shy
I’d love them back
and hold them to my chest

If I could dance in the moonlight
I would be brave enough for anything.

In celebration of poetry month (and my birthday month!) I’m going to do my best to write a poem every day. They’ll be numbered by the week number (in this case 49), and the day’s date (in this case 1). The Friday poems will be numbered as usual.

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