spray and pray

tickets are sought. some are bought. and there are times even these

moments thoughtfully forheld are missed.

there are seats empty waiting for prostration.

there are bodies prostate far before their time.

there are relationships shattered,

reservation plaques on linens gathering dust.

there are suites heavy with bouquets,

abandonment or too late indecision forking paths.

there are openings emptier,

canapés clustering, questions dead before they’re asked.

there are sunsets never climbed for,

a variant first to claim tripod in place;

there are mechanical snaps taken in their stead,

thought comes after, spray and pray.

a waste, a waste, such wasted fate

but judgment is not reserved for the ticketed.

at least while you’re above ground,

there will always be the next love and more art.

wishlist

  1. space held and holding

  2. love reciprocated in a spectrum of surprises

  3. trust mounting me to deep rooted subtropical trees

  4. collapsed time,

  5. a steady breeze,

  6. clear shade and sun

  7. fear released—reserved for body + mind in worship

  8. true self-care the only concern

  9. music sustaining,

  10. engaged eyes,

  11. attentive touch

  12. contributing,

  13. cackling,

  14. connecting

  15. safety alone, in two, in a tribe

  16. tastebuds satiated

  17. climaxes uncountable

  18. cool rain right when it’s wanted

  19. the scent of lushness throughout the night

  20. pulchritude in interdimensional waves


contained

if only the pink and white translucency wrapped around your soft hands held me instead

if i were bluish green would my feeding off dirt and sunshine concern you gently

if only my hands and feet were soft enough to play along—i can be inviting


if i were rooted grey and thick would my gravity disobey shadows locked in unnecessary skull

if only i could let my body be with you in dayspring unexpectedly

if only i could shake my mind’s nests free before seven a.m. nightmares


if i were to allow my morning mouth to loosen around sounds of insecurity and hope

would the burning scent i initiate instead be so damn enticing


unwanted

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me

unwanted orchids, you left me ceiling dazed so

now i don't really care


solo sheet tossing, semi hoping you’ll appreciate me

i know it's kinda dumb when morning’s done and

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me


ignoring plans and heaving hope, left to my own devices

i felt a build up; if you feel it, it could be meant to be? nah

—now i don't really care


i find you sucking smoke, eating words at the back of the party

i’m speaker bound, been begging you to come my way, but

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me


you were running round rain drenched over there

i got myself soaked waiting for you to embrace me, so

now i don't really care


take your sighs, swoons, needing stares elsewhere, elsewhere

—are you better babe?

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me

—now i don't really care?

NB: text incorporated from the lyrics of Arlo Parks’ ‘Cola’ and Yuni’s ‘Fall in Love’

our weekly call

i wasn’t sure when to begin

the post-its known by heart were stacked, folded, bent and hardly sticking

i had rehearsed the night before, i had played in loops worst case

scenarios: neutral responses dashed down in a scrawl

were top of the pile

an email sent the night before to soften the blow

had evoked enthusiasm;

he mentioned it first, providing prompting—

my motor mouthed monologue

an outpouring, out of order, of excuses and i love yous

to let him know about new deadlines, some opportunities, no more plans

his glass emptied as i came around to vocalizing gratitude

eight years i’ve been away, for six months they thought i was to stop it

he jokes of scotch to fill his chakras,

while i search for meaning, ‘still only in asia’

no more pretending to re-schedule

i don’t believe in time

i am here and gone