I am empty, or full. I am sucked dry. Unable to believe the I've went this long under the radar Nobody sounded the alarm. I am filled with the thickest apprehension. Cannot believe that I'm okay, you're okay, and we're both okay with me. Can you keep a secret? Will you sell out? Beyond this leather sleeve is a child in a house with ears and malice and spite. This is where my detachment comes from.

I am starving. Throwing up hydrochloric acid dreams into wastebaskets lined with poetry. I am thirsty. Desert weasel dog tongue lapping up pools of black tar ink. I bleed black and white and am re(a)d all-over. I've got an armoured think tank, and enough creativity tariffs to stay in business. I am a poet beyond the lengths of security reality, and time.

Electrical compulsion conducted so naturally from lips to soul. Tongues lashing, sparring. Bloodthirsty, ravenous birds echo an ancient, wailing song both desperate and intoxicating. Making shapes like delicate, breathing flowers, and sounds like Rabid, hungry wolves. Silence; ecstatic, or fully alive. Gaining momentum, magnetism, and empathy. Losing gravity, ground, and enthalpy. Feeling stark, naked warmth pulsing through my static, writhing body. Lightning strikes wild and urgent like cra...

On the brink of shady, sour simplicity. Digging tunnels in the black earth, but never feeling dirty. Scouring my salty, shallow skin, but never getting clean. Drought. Sterile, static land. Dry, dirty thirst. Belly full of sand Lizards, and snakes, and scavenging beasts run rampant and fully alive. Claws, and talons, and tines converge at a nervous, pulsing point and shave instances of sanity off my scalp. The desert is still killing me.

Getting my act together. Acting as I should, as I'm told, as I would if any of this were real; if I were a college student; made for the career world. Made for the city. Manhattan boyfriend. Freelance journalist. Traveller. Renaissance woman. Cultured intellectual. Poet. Lover. Female. Adult. Human. Actor.  

Anesthetized mouth, tongue, and vocal chords. Hoard. Hoarder. Dragon. Fire- breather. Cold. Colder. Interactions like fire like ice

Barbarism has become a sport of champions. Fiendism and cannibalism are equally rewarded traits. God eat God, and mother eats child, and child goes hungry. Strange isolation days of opportunist feeding and infomercials. A wasteland both comforting, and ruthless; vast, and vastly confined. On the eve of destruction, and the edge of reason. Wearing masks to suit every occasion, even birth. Worn momentarily, then discarded as prescribed by a doctor. Going away never looked so good

Life is cyclical. A well oiled cog; both uniting and dividing Humanity is a temporary state, an unlikely statistic; both creating and destroying Life. The World is cyclical. An investment with guaranteed returns; both uniting and dividing The Earth is temporary. A static occurrence both creating and destroying The World. I am cyclical; my soul incarnate both uniting and dividing Society is a human invention, a unique conformation; both creating and destroying Me

Warm, wet, and dank. On the verge of molding, or breathing. The sun is alive and well, and merciless. A regal, shining mirror reflecting the blinding force of karma. The wind is finite and futile, a fleeting vector in the presence of adversity leaving a bald, arid earth behind. The rains are rare but relentless. Leaving a semi-gloss finish. Staining the land fertile. Nourishing soil and soul. Dense, dark, and water-warped. Coating the skin in a thin film of time. This summer is a skinny, sta...

Second hand legitimacy that showers with a garden hose. Body polished, packaged, and pawned. Esteem resurrected, ravaged, and gone. There is no clockwork but orange. There are no mirrors for miles. There are always coyotes who cackle and swarm with razor blade smiles. I have been experienced. I have crawled, and cracked, and conquered the streets of "Electric Lady Land"; survived its fluorescence with two turn tables and my bare, broken hands. I am still you, as you are me, but th...