growfup

beat up baby, wakeup on the floor
a year from today I won't be
I'll cut my hair, I'll be 30, time to be reasonable
I'll be an ex- most everything
an exsmoker, exgirlfriend, excryer
in a year I'll be in a subtropical environment
an exidahoan, exlover
excinnamon-tanner
exkid & exfloor-baby.
I'm loving this floorchild lifestyle
floor power
we move where we move, roll around
bathe in the river
get those strong arms
in a year from now I'll be benchpressing the world
they'll watch my tender brown muscles twitch & release
and there will be gratitude
in honor of my new strength.
a year ago I was caught in a jam
humid sex cave
living on the floor, out of the car
it must be a boise thing, the abundance of
floorcribs & car bassinets
I'm just barely strong enough to lift me out
but that's why some people get cars, right
rentless & mortgageless
a year from now my seas will be calm
& I'll float in that clean cast
like otters do with their kelpbed kiddos
stormless, contented
because childhood ends
& the myth of suffering subsides
& the broken will be trashed & forgotten
& I'll be grown & help
filled

tough pussy

ohh hiiii

let's go in this cave

goo crevice forever

let's goo bye

make stalag-might babies

make a maybe baybe

snuggle up to the calcium teat

a calcified treat

the beauty sparkle-spire

white, unlit

dank

 the echo of your hunger murmur

 the purr of your helpless guts

the rumble of

      whats that wumble in yo tummy?

come on baby, give us a break

a stalactite feed

a stalagmite feed you

but you're on all fours

moving through moist maze

underground tunnel

  illumined crystal castles

  from the ceiling, from the floor

  for thousands of years

building, tall-towered

or beaded tears on your beak

dripstone, 

dissolvestone

It's cool to be underground, am I wrong?

the temperature is so death

Where's my beating down sun?

my beaten down son, my troubled youth?

but it's soooh cooohwd in dis womb!

does baby wanna come out?

of his coohwd wittew womb? 

I thought a womb was meant to be cozy

but not too comfortable to shove you out when it's time

Let's go to the Chamber of Rarities, I don't think there's a wikipedia for it but it sounds fucking real

lemon bag

When I was last there,
inside sad cave london room, with the rooks on the roofs
Why isn't rooves the plural, by the way?

When I was locked in that room I started drawing with a tiny paintbrush & india ink
pictures of the Olsen twins
and I'd find their photos
attached to the livejournals
of anorexic teens.
this is where I learned the term
 thinspiration
(an expression not found by the iPad)
and I looked at selfies of knobby spines
and clavicles sharp enough to cut cheese
and I read advice from pro-anas
to struggling anas-in-waiting
about how to get skinny
and someone wrote about drinking lemonade made with maple syrup
and I thought, damn that sounds good.


When I couldn't eat I knew I had to put something in me
my body was 21 years old
it was young
but it was a bag
there was nothing left in it
I was shriveling away
And I remember looking into the mirror once while I took a shower
because my housemate thought it sexy to watch oneself bathe
and I had grown so little
like a teen
like a teen with a blog
who could advise other teens
on how to let their skin tighten around their sad little bones
But I didn't like the girl I saw, that shivering little teen
because she wore her devastations like foodservice film
clinging to whatever was leftovers

So I drank that lemonade, like what else could I do? I drank it every day, all day. I drank it so much my urine was lemons, my shit was maple blood. Tapped, juiced. And my organs drifted out through the  holes left,
and I had all of the energy
of all of the suns,
and I was thinspiring the universe to bony tears