Let this wicked song hit where it’s true let it love you thru and thru.

she was sleeping with her mom on twin sized mattress  her mom was a waitress  that spent half of her salary on the sleeping drugs  they loved each other but they had to constantly pack their bags  she has never seen her father, not even one time he didn’t call, but she thought it was alright she hasn’t seen the other life  life on that side my father overloaded my lunchbox and i looked for someone to share it with around  and then there was her, a girl never spoken to but spo

Alone in my office at home, the only one online Tending to my inbox with only it as my company I can not recall when it first joined me But I found myself quite fond of it, strangely Legs like crooked fingers idly tapping underneath my bookshelf Tentatively peeking out, seeing my upside down face I sit at my desk for hours before the sheer white screen, Knowing it’s there, waiting With icky skin sticking to my black plastic chair And growing misanthropy to email correspondent

I don’t believe in ghosts  at least not in the traditional sense.  The only ghosts I believe in  are the ghosts of the people  who walk out of your life  for better or worse.  The ones that haunt you  with their presence  in your memories,  with their voices  in the back of your head,  and with those intrusive thoughts  you know only latched on from them.  I believe in this type of haunting and constantly wonder

You used to write only exclusives about the world ending. 

There’s a darkness at the heart of me  Creeping, lucidly, through dutch tulips and paisley, Parsley, sage, and rosemary climbing Windowsills in dirgeless threnody. We are constant, droning, no queens in the hive. There is only the slender shadow of  My outstretched hand Reaching over 2am tile,  Pulled out of proportion, Sticky and sinuous as old rubber bands Lingering on the receipt printer. “Turn your card over”  Ace of Clubs. Page of Cups. Receiving, ever receiving, Glancin

Their darling souls, He does not take For it is only their hearts He wishes to save And so at night While they lay asleep, He reaches inside And takes every piece Only then satisfied, He will be With their hearts His trophies Reattached and fixed On display  In a glass case Right near his bedside He smiles as he admires Each one Because he knows They can never deny him The love He so desperately craves Ever, again #poetry #horror

attrition   seventeen lacerations on your tongue  and the bruise on your achille’s heel.  it bubbles in the corner of your mouth, parasitical, invincible,  the bullet through sedgwick’s head,  the knife kissing caesar’s thigh.  the ceasefire immediate, justice honored, and iron painted on the back of your teeth.  a word for each hash mark:  they hang your best friend in the street and when his tongue falls out,  it is clean.  they say you are brave when you do not cry but the

There is no other way around it There is no other way to win He/she who commits the most war crimes is the winner It’s automatic Chivalry has no part in it Honor has little enough to do with it Romance is just another form of survivor guilt Willingness to act is the determining factor If you want to know who won, you need only ask one thing Which side committed the most war crimes? The winner is the one with the biggest body count You can never win by demonstrating any reluct

the moon i see you there, legionnaire i see the pen you bear like the tide i bring in – i surface – all the tears you veneer i see them hit the canvas as you look up to me & stare – i’m a friend a glimpse out the pane whenever you need an ear these craters upon my face show i’ve too felt the strain of being pulled in all directions besides the one i felt most sane so even sometimes i disappear to gather my thoughts & fears – but i’ll always return to the sky & listen for i ha

un soneto para mi pueblo   escrito en inglés  “when you stand up too fast and start seeing your ancestors.”  – jalain page,  january 9th, 2022.  INT.  a young woman sits on the carpet with the intricate pattern. her eyes are screwed shut, her legs criss cross applesauce – you know, the way they taught you how to sit in elementary. she wears what most young ladies wear in this day and age – a cropped, oversized white t-shirt, jean shorts, and black socks.  beaded ea

your pupils are dilated, like our mother’s when she cried  which wasn’t often, but when she cried– remember when she cried? –it was like waterfalls were gushing out of her irises  like the whole of the jordan river was drowning out her body  and neither of us could tame the rapids or save her from her own salt  weeping like the willows in our garden  hiding like the ghosts inside her mind  absent like the records at our school  yet, we were somehow so attached to her grasp–li

Unruly Cinders Eyes that criticize Hold unwarranted power,  As they gaze on with reticent anguish, Laying up a store of waste for every day and hour   Passed, by raking Emotions over embers And coals, hot with disdain – unless, Saved by a pair of unruly cinders   That escape the burnt-up heap,  Sparking compliance  Of a sort; the catalyst  For neutral acquiescence    In which the Victim and the Critic Are together absolved  By the disappointing fact They were both at fault...

Main character of my own life, watching the world go by front seat "I" spelled with a capital letter in English, I learned it watching cartoons Why was I given this life? Why was anyone given life? Sometimes I catch myself adding flourish and new details Making it more interesting and magical than it really is I believe in God because I want to I want to think there is more than just this A name in city records that will be damaged by water-leaking ceilings A name written ins

It’s raining The water droplets are nothing but a calm, soothing hug that envelopes my body It’ll all be alright  it whispers, as if it has any idea what’s going through my head I wish I knew too, let me in on this secret that you’re hiding from me It’s a cacophony of voices that aren’t my own, choking whatever piece of me I have left and leaving the corpse of my brain out to dry It’s raining The rain makes me think of nothing or everything at all My tears are like the rain,

That mossy stone there, man-shaped with such care, blindly, it stares at me, and everyone else. Proud gaze, unaware,  eroding green eyes and hair, yet somehow it stares, returned gazes for 300 years. And now it sits here: a stone’s new home. Uncertain ancient leer, frequented, and alone, this spectacle is skeptical of ever going home to that stone dead carver, that human he calls father, long buried under fodder who shaped him at such cost, sunken and decayed like  me in one

thick room of tension  it could be cut with a plastic butter knife  that’s how abundant it is.  my eyes avert themselves from the glare of the sun those yellow, jaundiced eyes,  looking in my soul precisely.  intensity intensifies in the room that we occupy while the consideration of taking myself out of this equation dances through my mind.

"Occluded Vessel" I collapse at the plinth sagging over the edge, a monolith knowing I can’t gulp down anymore tonight, knowing I ingested too much, spoors of spirits dispersed in the dusk like musk tracks I sip the sky admiring its lush. How will I huff my way over the hydrospheres as though I am on a plane in the captain’s pit playing with the buttons as though there is no consequence. Like I tapped the wine stains on your oxford, as though they could extend like branches i

“Church Flowers” It’s called the blue church Because the roof is blue. Inside is dark and sombre, Chandelier light is golden. The Father sang and echoed. I would look at the walls, At paintings of bible scenes, Empty spaces filled by flowers. Five petals, faded blue or red, Yellow middle and curled leaves, Arches, frames and crowns, Second pairs of halos, Perfectly symmetrical, Perfect repetition - maybe stamped on? The saints all look the same too. --------------------------

“Her” All these lines. All these words. All these thoughts, scribbled across paper for a girl I do not see. (Not know.) Scribbled in ink, staining the paper.                                     Staining my soul.                                     …But she is—                                     …she is beautiful… She is the way. On the composition notebooks pages before me: Dig deep.                                     Dig deep to the bottom—   and think of her,     to the r