i watch the ink run down my arm
the pen, writing the feelings
i could never explain with words;
sitting on my bathroom floor
never led to anything
but unwanted art

Crane Fly,
I don't mind your harmless flutter
across my bathroom tiles.
another living thing in my apartment
actually brings me some comfort.
but you need to stop flying straight at my *****,
every time I try to urinate.
it is impolite.
and completely unacceptable.
and although I know you pose no actual threat to my genitalia,
I don't want you landing on it.
when you try to, I freak out,
and *** all over the place.
and throughout time men have never hesitated to **** others who threatened their manhood.
I imagine millions of human lives have been lost because of *****.
I have no respect for that.
thou shalt not ****.
there's no ***** clause.
but let this serve as a final warning,
because you are a guest in my house,
and you only continue exist,
because I allow it.
so stay the hell away form me,
when my ***** is exposed,
and I am vulnerable,
or my survival instincts will end you.

The sun rises in the occident
and I feel a little bit lost.

What happened to me? I
do not know.
What happened to you? I
do not know either.

I know that I desperately need a
shower, to wash off all this grease
from my extensions which feel like
streets.

I know that I grow old
sitting on my toilet but that Im not
going to die here, eyes on my
notepad or book or laptop.

I know that the rising of the sun
should mean something to me,
but is it my fault if it doesn’t?

Sometimes I see the wind fleeing
through the leaves which catches
my gaze and makes me sigh.

Oh god I need to make love to you.

they look in the bowl
it is dark and and quiet
one stand alone
a poo is present
it glistens in the toilet water
the brown feels soft on my skin
'I didn't eat any corn'
I spoke to the poo within.

Razor on the bathroom sink and the smell of pine and aftershave
Calloused hands
Dirt fingernails
You packed and formed the soil like clay
Like paint
You were an artist, silent in the morning
Coffee before work
One beer after
One beer after and a warm dinner she made
Pine and aftershave
on the stairs
on the carpet
on the carpet on the stairs
Lean in
Lean in, kids
Lean in and I’ll tell you about them
You said,
You are an artist,
Silent and coffee in the morning
Loud and beer on the stairs,
on the carpet in the afternoon
Leather seat
Newspaper dogear
Brewers turned on
In the leather seat,
‘Turn it up,
They’re winning!’
They’re winning
They’re winning
Screen porch
Wooden door
Screen porch through the wooden door
Sitting
Bumblebee Boompa
Bumblee Boomps
In the garden
On the sink
In the kitchen
On the stairs
In the living room
On the porch
You are an artist
Silent in the morning
Loud
Loud
Loud in the afternoon
and winning

Take a deep breath,
swallow it in
Don’t let them see
the darkness within
Unwrap the bandages,
pull on the sleeves
Force yourself
for them to believe.
But the whole universe is crawling
through my veins,
How can you not feel
these burning flames?
And behind a locked
bathroom stall,
I beg myself,
please, don’t fall,
It’s just a little blood,
can’t you see?
But the world ignores
my last plea
And the comforting darkness
gets a firm hold
On my tortured mind
that suddenly turned cold.

Old memories and dizzy songs from her childhood dance across the roof of her brain eyelashes dripping tears and hiccuping painful sobs. Hiding in the school bathroom not from bullies but her own fears. Blinking at the reflective yellow tiles she pushes away the yellow bathroom.

Water drips into the rusty ***** porcelain and the mirrors fog from humidity. Gasping for air and resemblance looking down to see that his hands aren’t there.

Fingers trembling and stepping out of the stall, one among over the sink washing the tears from her face and praying for a vacation, vacation from hell, mania, and psychosis infested cranial cavity and fog swirling swarming her.

Worrying about her fate again that a small breeze of nostalgia fluttered in her heart. Thinking a moment past she had someone in her room that she loved. A person of flesh to talk and hug.

She is lonely now. She could not be more different and she has lost the memory-self that come to the state of reality where she is in the high room alone.

shadows and silhouettes
dancing on the ceiling.
blinding blue lights
circle the bathroom mirrors
stained with purple lipstick.
silent vibrations from your phone
blocked by the shower’s storm
and overflowing sink water.
spilled lotion bottles
and untouched lemon wicks.
wadded tissues
colored in colorless tears
drowning in puddles
of the bathroom tiles.
girls’ giggles in the room next,
moaning through the right wall,
and sad chocolate eyes
abandoned behind the shower curtains.
wet hair, wet mascara, wet sobs;
your sad chocolate eyes
trapped in a nightmare.

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013