driving back from denver

and as i watch the golden eagle eat away at the elk's broken body i will wonder why it is i need to leave, and how i will get this done. time feels as though it is beginning to run out and this eagle will still be hungry after it finishes its first course. i will still be hiding and wondering if what i am doing is actually what i want. it's getting harder and harder to know how i feel. traveling alone in a dream tunnel has made my vision go bad, my hair gray. and even you, moon-dog, with your horse bark and your white hairs appearing on your snout, even you know this isn't the right way. but the challenges are getting taller, and i feel as though i'm shrinking. not shrinking because i am scared or sad, but because in reality i have always been quite small. and my martyr tendencies are wearing thin on my nurturing soul. or has it always been nature i'm up against? like i said, i can't tell anymore. my eyes are dry and tired, and my mind is bending over the peaks around me, looking for the east. i've always loved sunsets, but the sun rising wakes something in us all. 

the cure

when the sludge has set, and you 

feel like your skin may crack its way off of you.

you'll never go back to work, you'll never answer your phone.

you'll

just hide

in your 

den of thought.

try to slowly wiggle your toes.

loosen the weight off of your feet,

and get up.

go outside to your car, get in and drive.

drive to the old dirty mountain road 

and roll your window down. 

stick your hand out of the window and let the wind move you through the air. that air, i still don't understand. that air moves me and you through space. that air will move your hand, and with some control, will move it, echoing the waves of oceans that surround you, no matter where you are. 

that rolling motion, that wave, will carry you to a better place. a place of appreciation. a smile. a simple movement will rush all the way through you, and out the other side. 

that wind will take something from you, the bliss your body is feeling in that moment, and it will move through the air and space and into the lungs of people everywhere.

that is a moment for yourself. that is a moment for the world. that is the cure.

love gas

when pressed to talk about something i know little about i want to look away, out the window, into a storm that i could calmly announce was heading our way. and everyone might forget that i don't know a thing about politics or love for that matter. all i really know is when i see an ex of mine with someone else, my stomach starts to clench and a ball of sad love gas falls from my intestines out of my butt and into the room, where i smell it and want to yelp. instead i say "who farted" and look at the nearest stranger accusingly.

and that poor old stranger will deny it, but no one will believe him because a pretty girl like me could never make a sad love fart. you can taste the heartbreak on the back of your tongue. (it's like dried out roast beef on stale bread being chewed up by someone with cotton mouth. and then they take a sip of the nearest beverage only to find out that what they just drank is older than the roast beef and definitely had an expiration date.)

i want to breath normally. and eat normally. and drink normally. all of these things come only half naturally to me. but most nights i wake, my body folded in half and my stomach as tight as a brand new rubber band. i have to stretch back out and start to breath again into my belly. and when it comes to food, i hesitate every time i feel hunger for fear that i won't look so nice anymore after it. and drinking is the only thing that makes me smile. and have a fair laugh with people. otherwise they start to see my true sadness and cant stand to be around me anymore. all i'll have left is self loathing, but with drinking, i entertain.

i jump around, i take my sweater off and i left my hips touch everyone around me. i kiss my friends and promise them love and satisfaction, just at a later date. a storm is coming, i think, while i'm spinning on a dance floor, but i wont know what it looks like until i sit down by a window and avoid a perfectly fine question.

when beef was wild

when beef was wild

cowboys were real. they jumped on

their truly broken horse

and threw dust in the air.

they stuck a knife in between

their teeth and gutted the shit

out of their dinner. they spit

blood and mucus out on the grass and

rode from lightening bolts and His great

thunder. when beef was wild

cowboys had a job. they had women

who made cornbread proper.

cornmeal and water. none of this

extra shit. spoils the flavor.

they sat round a

wagon wheel table and

spoke of indians and gold. they spoke of

building fences to claim what was

rightfully theirs. they shot

people who stepped on their ranch.

they got up every day ready to do what they had to.

they went to bed full and satisfied.

wyoming

wyoming

clouds look like they're on interlude.

we could reach up and pull each one apart

like it was cotton candy. each particle separating from itself

but not wanting to let go. stretching and tearing.

they move across the sky,

following the bus like

an old ship, fierce and majestic. their shadows hit

the rocky fields and

mountains acting as spilled paint causing

anyone to feel small.

and as the bus turns into wagon hound rest stop,

i wonder when i'll be home.

Red Lipstick

outside of the quaint café

we throw in-tact fox

skull's for our little

domesticated troop

while sipping on

sophisticated potations

spiked with evan's finest.

he applies his red lipstick

while she barks orders

at pup one and pup two.

i cover my ears in frustration

for that fox skull is

too pretty and broken

too perfectly at the jaw

to become a toy for

an inbred chihuahua.

(i feel that she is always taking control)

and the lipstick he puts on

makes his lips look

surprisingly thin which vexes

me further.

(those lips were so kissable once)

strange parisian man

comes and invites us to the gardens

and with a decision made

we are there arguing about

trips to france and the re entry into school.

trips to france will not do if one is

serious about school! trips to france

helping with lighting when one know's little

about lighting.

the dreams of an anxious young lady

demonstrate paranoid anger and loss

and usually leave a cold sweat on said lady's

pale smooth forehead. the lack of control

on anxiety stricken dreamy nights that one might feel

is completely part of the process of

figuring shit out

and must run it's vicious course on the

left and right side of the brain.

(mostly right, she can tell by her headaches)

Hannibal

Cannibalism, shnannibalism!

I'd rather eat some brownies

stuffed with weed,

or hey fuck it! Mushrooms!

Then I'll march down some hip trails

and look at the clouds turning

into paintings and out of reality I'll go!

Yes, and when the nausea kicks in

and I think of Hannibal the real Cannibal

I'll let out some ridiculous scream and laugh

and start down some crazy spiral of tears

swollen eyes and basic hysterics.

I'll stand in the middle of some parking lot

and watch a car wait for me to move,

and I'll feel really brave, like I'm stopping this car

from making any progress. Any progress at all! Yeah!

Until the person gets out of their car

and shouts at me to move! And I'll just run away

like some deer who only eats grass,

praying that no one will eat my brains!