im going through portals
they remind me to dig your nails between the cracks
pull back the kind of the ordinary
pushing out of comfort

i hear blubber in your belly
the type of person
who needs tissues up their ass

you’re full of shit

too much too empty once.
snoring, lazy , coward.
foolish coyote proving bravery by picking
at the smallest bug

in case you weren’t aware;

disrespecting fire
doesn’t make you graceful
walking blindly into a forest
doesn’t make you brave
pulling blindly at the snake’s tail
make you childish, entitled, and a casualty
in Darwinism
behaving like nature is something to own
there is nothing feral about you
there’s nothing about you that is wild.
your pamper paper butt moons shamefully
as you rummage through your back of useless
find me that fire starting kit
tell me how to start a fire “the real way”
then tell me that lightning excites you
as we drive down the hill
watching bodies of dead trees crumble.


there’s too much past
to be present
the leech in murky waters
the witches in the light
the wolf with its new fawn
and an old fox
too fat in it’s face to by sly anymore
this is what it felt like to be tall
when your shoulders were heavy.
these feelings are mine
everyone else is simply a casualty
no longer baring teeth at strangers
this is something else

i want an instance of
knock the air from my lungs
a bully too normality too long.
chancing this as a symptom of discipline
who determines that anyway?
when has popular opinion ever give me a choice
to decide normality.
i was handed a stack of dead wood to build a house
and told to look at nature.

i’m thirsty
tide pulled by an ocean
im calling home sirens
who can drown the fish then?
it all ends in the same place
treading water until further notice
i’m sharing my bed with Fortune
i’m sharing my porch with a wasp
one scares me more that the other
there are dreams i wish i could look back on
freedom i hope to take back or define
its stuck
can’t tell if behind or in front
i hear shadows cracking their joints at me
like they too are getting old
calling my bluff
even if i know my weekly routes
i still can’t tell left from right.

sugar gliders and six of swords
tasting satisfaction
what is sex but
some territory love stomps over
trampled like rubber to a rode
love a “privilege”
undeserved and must be payed over in time
and space
so we hold it
for lightness
but love in its double aspect
being and none being
terrifyingly material beacon of time.