call me a causal vacancy, like a motel room-

dirty laundry / hiding dead bodies / one lamp, dark ‘realities’
used sheets / faded desk top tables / torn up bibles as
bed time stories, when all you hear is

                   (oh god)

oh lord these thin walls, have mercy on me

and tell me, all your i don’t knows were code
for i’m scared and not you don’t want mes

these pleas are my candle blown out heavy catastrophes
where in moments of weakness, i ask for you again like,


tell me you want me like-
hollow sounds in your throat piercing my soul
begging for more, like a bitten lip bleeding, sore

my skin asking, like you ravenous-
mangoes in hand, dripping
hungry floors

once more-
wash / rinse / repeat / leave.

The Fake People that Dwell in Caves

In bright puddles
that rain left,
A reflection of people that must have,
passed the asphalt, muddles;
Opaque inside their heads;
A dark, huddled, sleepy spread;
With lips sealed shut,
hardwired for the same old rut;
And glassy eyes that stare,
for no want of repair:

The giggling waters unaware,
break their motion, into a kaleidoscope,
that snares,
the unknowing into them;
A splash of cold could wake,
second hand people,
fake people, you think,
From trying to be what they are not;
That which they cannot be.
the ribbons and lace,
could only be icing on their graves.
But they just pat their feet,
upon the pave,
and move on, move on,
Far away from the rain-eaten streets,
deep into their shallow caves.