I am the witch maker.

I used to sleep with the enemy.

Now I sleep with a machete’.

The beaded snake that you gave me,

with the coconut cross,

the one for wearing around my neck like a dog,

slithers around the ground under the sheets at the foot of my bed.

like the dragon in my chest,

he comes up from my gut and looks from behind my eyes,

he breathes as I breathe,

his scales inhale and scrape against my insides,

yet I carry him, this rusty worm.

You are now a witch, I saw your empty form,

your eyes hollow of light,

your smile a deadly aiming device.

You rode me to your pleasure,

screaming above me in the night.

I caught you and now I release you.

I am the poison taster.


to be loved is a fucked up thing.

to have it, and then have it taken away…where do i begin…

when i was a kid, i would pull charcoal embers out of the grill with tongs

and lay them into plastic cups of water,

and watch the battle.

now im older and that burning, life creating ember

is in my chest

and its killing me.

no salty air sea grape title.

its awesome…how my pessimism can grow with the waves

and the the sway of palm fronds saying shh..the ocean saying shhh…

its like when your in the sea and the water is colder at your knees

than at your feet, the currents each with there own warmth, their own distance from the cold.

i am under the sand and the waves will never stop.

the shells with their stolen wind,

the broken glass, the syringe

the light dancing, almost makes me forget. forget. forget. forget. forgot.

tell it to my fist-sized heart

that there is no sea,

there are no ships and no lighthouses

looking for me.