my most toxic trait is thinking

     everything will work out.


haven't died yet

     must be doing something right or

getting very lucky.

The rarer fruit is sweeter when despite
Her bruising skin, she sits atop the bowl
On seasons not her own. A juicy bite
So sweet and thoughtful, full of all the soul
I need to last another day. She's ripe
And I am hungry. Fallen fruits await decay
Yet never her. I'd thought she'd be the type
To know about her rare, forbidden sway.
But all the more I stare into her pit
I think about the farm she's stolen from
And what a better tree she'd make if it
Was not for me and my **** hunger. Plum,
So stuck upon your twig, you'll never know
What joy there is to have in letting go.

This train's a round trip if I never get off.
It's all the same stops after a time
                 of fine flings and other things of
that nature                    to wait for.

This train's a round trip if you never get off.
Lots of seats are open now, you take
                       one but I'll be fine left standing,
'Cause I never sat on this line.

This train's a round trip if I think to get off.
Last train may never call. The windows
       may be tall and wide, but you won't get
Any closer to it all until you

This train's a round trip if you keep making transfers.
I'm only as sure of where I'm going as you.
                                                            ­            That's no fair.
I don't mean to keep the map up on your phone.

This train's a round trip if I can have my way.
I've been partial to the liminal in

the same way you've been to

This train's a round trip if you can't tell me off.
I run my mouth like a business
                                         the way my overtime is
unpaid until I start going south.

This train's a round trip until I learn to read.
For every symbol I've seen before, two more
      rise wearing like clothes but don't expect
me to know what they'll say.

This train's a round trip until the drunk falls a
sleep in the door drawing every eye but
                                                  shouting my name
Guy go to gym. Must be into fitness.

This train's a round trip until that woman in
heels stepped on my toe so hard a tear
                         obscured the sight of the most
apologetic bow I've ever received.

This train's a round trip until I'm at your stop.
I get off without you
most nights                          I'm lucky the trains
drive all on their own.

Allow my letters, ink and stroke, be paint
And words and lines the image I portray.
This paper is no canvas. Its restraint
Is too encapsulating, too cliché.
If poems may be painted, then what base
Would words applied to greater meaning hold
To? Any art must this one problem face:
What form should this piece take to be retold?
But poems need no canvas, staff, or tools.
In memory they live just as they're heard.
So let my canvas be your brain. Its spools
Of woven thought infuse my every word.
Each canvas breathes a life I'll never know
Into a piece of art I cannot show.