2 until the end of days (And if it starts)

The waters that rush with my blood vessels
through my veins would turn to wine,
and like a messiah, i’d invite the world to
drink from me in celebration because what’s being tapped
when the eyes that fill you with joy are so close,
in your bed, in your heart, beneath your lips

remember when we talked of my fairy tale bathroom,
how gnomes roamed around my toilet covered in sprinkles
of fairy dust, that’s what I want to be to you, a fairy tale
delivered to your house in under two days with free shipping
because you finally signed up for what you deserve,
which is happiness and a life free of ease

and an acceptance of this letter of infatuation I write
before I know your middle name, which is the same love
letter I write as I know your greatest regret, which is the
same letter of compassion I write, as I hope you make
your way to self-forgiveness

i know how intimate you are with the fantasy
of your death, how you build intimacy with pain,
as if it’s an egg you must nurture into a species
different than the mother that does nothing but
draw blood. I know, firsthand, it doesn’t grow up different.

My light, I promise you don’t only shine with darkness
draped around you, I promise the joy you are is still true
during the day, and I want you in my daytime, noontime,
and nighttime, all the time, so like a message in a bottle,
I’ll let this go, my love continually existing for all to see
an undying undulation in the ocean of my subconsciousness

and beneath the glare of fire borne from the strike of these
two sticks of strength and ambition blown to an inferno by
the softness of your compassion, I am seen and see myself.
What I feel is beautiful, so I release it, and you have it,
and it’s yours, for you, for all time.

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1 until the end of days

can i rip a kiss from
time, time, “time”?
it’s 3:49 am and my consciousness
is wrapped in the under-saturated
technicolor of dreams, my legs wrapped
in your sheets, labia wrapped by your lips,
i breath in time, time, time

every time i inhale you, a blood relative
snaps off the ances(tree), but at
3:49 am, you swallow the pain of this body’s
shatter and my lower back swallows
pleasure this time, time, time

this is a poem about loss,
filled to the brim with faith
and one days, and time time time

to wake up
jarred by the alarm
of the empty space
i wish you filled.

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what do you take
for the calcification of desire,
what pushes out the aortic stone,
sometimes caught in the left chamber,
sometimes the throat?

i take a tincture dropper filled with the memory of
my latest favorite album,
the taste of strawberry ice cream,
the warmth of a cup tea in the palm,
and how, sometimes when you laugh, your eyebrows go up,
even though i’m the one left surprised
by how quickly it all takes my breath away.


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The shore is self-realized, every
minute mineral owned by itself and the others,
and meets but does not need the ocean, although
passersby see them exist as one, like the sky
and that cloud which hangs like bated breath
in wait of either its fall or evanescence
in full embrace of either destiny, while
enveloped by the azure that loves
but does not possess
or own or brag
that it also has it’s entire self
wrapped around the ocean waves that leap
into it’s very center,
to retreat back home,
in love,


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i dont (episode 4: a breakout series)

i don’t
remember the last time
i remembered myself,
caught the lobe of my ear
dangling off a ray of the star,
Sirius, loud and self-embracing

me, i’m tired of the pick apart
put together caused by self-explosion and the
subsequent scavenge of the earth
for the most minute monuments of me
(like last night, i was so desperate
for the left side of my pinky toe,
and I could still stand
is it greed if i have this
need while i know
i still need?

shouldn’t this desperate
desire be enough
for me?

– Stevie

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i don’t (episode 3: a breakout series)

i don’t
have the will
to wake some days,
to rent another breath
that compounds this loan when I already
don’t make enough joy (i know my right eye twinkles
with three less rays
than that passerby)

now, I’ve had my 50th
call from God, all asks for payment
trailed by the threat of confiscation of property
(i’ve almost been confiscated sixteen times),

had to bear my entire weight on ragged knees,
brown skin scrapped back, wrist
thrust forward bathed in the stench
of three-year old trashed memories
from my scavenge for belly born

and i get the extension

but we both know
all my smiles are just
begs for more time
i may never afford


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i don’t (episode 2: a breakout series)

i don’t
take risks anymore, i don’t
sink my hands
into the welcoming
grit of moistened ground,

i hope to be stopped by gold
at my feet,
afraid of dirty

though my face is read, and my veins
have blown, blew backwards
ugly to be backwards and lost,

where mom is the only sense still
made while she sleeps in a bed
made of bugs with the silent partner
of the unspoken abuse from my

in the AM, I wake to
the pelts of a painful hailstorm
of passionate prayer
and the gust
from open lips,
hungry as the eye

desperate for straight
as the right direction, but there is
no direction to the dead
but under, where nothing is a risk
and everything is

still, i wanted their approval,
less me,
less speak,
let’s be
let’s be solid,
let’s be statue,
let’s be fluid only when other hands move me,
dimensional only when warm bodies circle around,
full of life only when passersby are desperate
to be moved by a sorrow chiseled so still,
their breath caught trembling in the air…

pupils risen
above nothing
that beats or flows,
let’s be something less than dead,
who’s bodies were at least
dignified by the act of being
buried, i dreamed of it once

upon a time, i was
woken by the fatal
kiss of my own screams,
pressed by hatred
on all sides,
heart flowing,

– Stevie

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