Fair Flying

I may not be a political science major, but I have a decent grasp of United States politics, and right now we're a mess. Anyone in the world can see it, since our political revels and defeats are always being splayed across news and social media. What's more: instead of trying to unite over common issues, we're pitching our causes at each other like weapons for war.  The problem, in my opinion, isn't the mess; it's our reactions. Everyone has morals. Everyone has beliefs. Everyone thinks they're right. But what happens when there isn't only one answer?  What happens when diverse groups of people are tossed together like a salad? Do they listen to each other before speaking or do they sit and scream accusations? At what point does the fence fall? In today's society, we're plagued by the illusion of binary systems. "Liberal" and "conservative" have become terms we use to describe our personalities rather than political st...

And if you get cut, it hurts like hell, unless hell is inside you, buried beneath the folds of your skin, and then, I suppose, you’re akin to stinging bones and words you don’t know, helicopters circling a phoenix. You were born here, but you never thought you’d die here. Never thought you’d become a pile of overplayed strings on linoleum floor. Never knew you’d turn blue like cracked circuits yearning for fire. No, you thought “grander” things: a cut on the king’s toe, a politician’s used towels, a celebrity’s rubber body slipping between sheets. You wished yourself a plastic boat and floated toward death. You forgot about the farmers, the doctors, the hat that was warmer than the hand, how it felt to kiss your best friend, the feather that fell to earth like sperm spiraling toward an egg.

Chewing blue lips, I retrace steps through stars, flirting with moons. I choose to peruse stardust, not blood. Maybe this mess is crucial, a reverse foxtrot of love, where I stumble over toes, numbing spines to dip deep and long. Maybe this mess is sacred, a puddle of black matter flattening my frills, clipping me to the edge of God’s belly ring.

Draw out venom With pens. Roll on ink Like perfume. Feel bubbles behind eyes; Draw those out too With sharpened pencils And plates, knives And ceramic snakes, Like someone who’s blind But sees .

Bruises are illusions, Spoon fed through pores, Stored at the surface, where wounds Relish their looks. Bluish gold, bruises fold, overlap, Then fade into clockwork veins, Steam-driven, harp playing machine. Bruises are illusions Fused with fear. Color appears thin But remains a stain for life.

Stomach spirals, Twirling tornados, Serpentine silence. Sage smoke Seeping violent veins, thrumming raspberry threads. Violet lips tremble, wet velvet, scarlet puddles. Lilac livers flutter, shuttering wings fan fire. Peppermint gasoline, methamphetamine. Sticky sap encapsulating lungs, tickling throngs of fat, skin. Wedged between thimble limbs. Simpering mouths Salivate clouds. Huddled, flushed, puckering Teeth grip the cup, gulping For dear life.

New book skin, leather bound bones, Diamond spine. Eyes so divine, Stars cry. Words spill from your mouth, tipping, Colliding with my lips, a smashing Azure cracking teeth. Vicious vice, delicious black ice, Coils of smoke trickle down, fanning Outer space. You lean over me, a twisted cavern of knots And knives, bending, close to snapping, but I break first.