A clear picture

of a tree emerges out of paper

and graphite and ash;

it is a sprout between fractures

in the waterless desert,

where agave farmers search

for babies to, one day, harvest.

The dry flat land is drunk with us.

She makes no sense,

in her dry meandering humor,

that raspy laugh, a whisky giggle,

she burns our brains

and begs us to prettify her.

We stuff our bottles with rags,

and wait and wait

and wait

our legs a lotus, one on top

of the other;

we wait,

drunk,

our breath heavy

ready

for anything to show up,

anything, at all, to burn.

Whisky again. She speaks

to me: I wanna do bad things

with you.

Television Withdrawl

Let the pixels refract

through my cornea,

each little ray of light

to bounce throughout

my skull and brain,

this idle mind a porous

haven for a slingshot narrative,

a few laughs, or quiet captivation.

How I want it! How it teases me!

This universe, castrated,

factory-farmed, flash-frozen,

prepackaged, and reheated,

served in sectioned-off plastic,

a compartmentalized story,

a soft mush, easy to swallow;

its silence calls to me.

as a human

bodies never burden

they tighten,

break, rebuild

knots that strengthen

their enchanted grip

with every

mortal cut;

but mind dies

with every moment,

cell by

precious cell,

we cannot feel

them pass but

in our

fleeting consciousness,

makeshift pathways build

amidst bodies of

dead thoughts,

broken memories;

do not look

at my words

to heal

your brain,

you have no

choice but to

look toward,

inward and

find the image

of your face

with a

wide smile.