Yellow Paint

I watch the clock to slow down time and relish in the time between seconds one, and two, and three, and four. It dilates time and takes the edge off of the ants that file beneath my skin to emerge from my pores. I feel the beat and burn of each moment of existence between all of those seconds that tick like a metronome to the beat of my quivering organs.
I need to move somewhere where it rains more, and maybe there's a beach- I don't care. It wouldn't be the kind that you take your yammering kids to for spring break, but the cold kind, where you dig from clams in sweaters and jeans rolled up at the ankles. I would tow my bucket and shovel up and down the lovely coastline as the brisk air licked at my rosey nose and cheeks. I've learned that some nights you can't run away from in the rain; some nights you have to sit at home and eat Van Gogh's yellow paint to make your insides feel happy again. We'll try anything, Van Gogh and I.
I bet you think I'm crazy, but I can hardly feel sometimes. Scalding shower, brush your teeth till your gums bleed damage, nothing too serious. For the past bit I think I've become a supernova about to birth into a blackhole. At least I hope I become a black hole and not a neutron star as I wish to warp space, not just live a dense, heavy form ghosting through space. Then again, what does that have anything to do with this loss of sensory? My explosive life somehow seems tied to it though, and so maybe my metaphor will have stretched as far.
I feel as though I'm whining too much about myself though, so maybe I'll change the subject. There was a man walking the curb, picking up cigarette butts to take the bits of tobacco to make a cocktail, hand rolled cigarette for himself. Is that life so bad? To have something you care about so much that you walk the streets piecing together a dose of your desires? A person that cares that much about anything impresses me. To want is an asinine emotion. How do you decide what to want? A thing that is worth wanting...
It's difficult to know what you really desire until it tells you no.
No. It's such a difficult thing to hear and possibly twice as difficult to say.
Fuck it all so we begin to think for ourselves. Fuck it so I can ingest my toxic, yellow paint, because maybe, just maybe, it will make a difference. Maybe it will take the "no's" away; maybe it will take the want away, so we don't have to roll those cigarettes to be romanced by life. Maybe it will liberate us from the shackles of the metronome of time.

Merigold Couch

There are two beds in our little home, yet we sleep every night nustled against each other on our old, warn in, marigold hued couch like pieces of an elaborate puzzle. My soft curves cap the rigid angles of his appendages as his stubbly beard and whispering winds tickle the nape of my neck.
Every night he removes the mask from his face, one of many facades he upholds for all the different people, and hangs it in the closet before letting me caress his soft, warm, real flesh.


You put too many noises in my head at once;
I need more processing space
the area I exist in-
you fill it
with hums and whistles
basses and thuds.

Stay here,
stay here in the daylight
as we animate together
and apart
in sync.
We dance!
Together to a constant
hanging melody with the hopes of
one day flying. Away. Away.

We can find the silence in the rain
and the warm, moist breaths
of one another.
As we brush cheeks and eyelashes
like lovers,
we are lovers.
Lovers in this dream.