yr feathered arms,
while no certainty can be held, 
must wave in quick clips 
against the stilted 
wreathed torso. 

IT CAN ONLY BE SO 

hands held tight and
voice that lends its 
soporific, 
slurped reverie against 
inked waves and
sweat blessed harmine
causticisms. 

THESE CAN ONLY BE SO 

paging scrapped against hard books
and pulsed 
against the black-white, 
yr fingers retch and 
bow toward furling 
glow. 

SUCH IS LIFE

hearn flown, 
strained against winds and
tangled wires, 
heavyset words shoved hard
against 
peeling lockers.



above is my hurried struggle towards autonomy. my fingers, at this very moment, retch and bow toward furling glow. i hope that soon they will twirl and flourish at the brown shoed feet of some miserable, recently divorced man who exercises total control over the money that i bring home. i hope to wait, open palmed, for his hard heel to crack and split each finger on my hand. i hope that when this happens, i’ll be able to smile.