If it wrote.

Time-traveling within the solar plexus of a feral cat,
I lost my way
Which would explain why I'm here

Where the men pretend to bend where they don't
And the ladies are stiffer than the drinks
Where the headaches don't stop for months
And the months are gaining weeks

The garbage truck alarm clock
And the stab wound attire
Admire twelve course top ramen dishes
And speaking of riches:

I'd bend light if I had a gym pass
To get me back to the time I lived
Can you spare a few?

Time-traveling within the solar plexus of a feral cat,
I lost my lunch
Which would explain why I haven't eaten for days
Unless you count the swigs of hooch
That knocked the plaque off my teeth

I'm sorry, I don't bend that way
I'll be kind for now to nod my head
But I've got to get back to being a hermit
Keep telling your story, I just have to step out
Really
Keep going
Someone will come along and listen

days seemed to be the same
in an overall okay
but one particular morning
my troubles would bloom
in spring-time cocoons
as wings crept out of wombs
the yellow and orange blossoms
would leave my insides rotten
with beautiful pictures
of flying rorschach tests
it was love at first flight
fluttering in my eyes
were the sights that set
my insides aflame with affection

spring and summer were fine
but autumn brought cold nights
and oh, those lonesome sad winters
left alone for months on end
no love, no flight, no friends
and yes, i have tried
to pluck moths from the light
and change their wings
to be more familiar things
but the paint weighs them down
so they never leave the ground
and oh, those lonesome, sad winters
where i wait for the caterpillars

Expiration Date

the apple of my eye
has shriveled down to a core
please take her away
i don't want her no more
the strawberry kisses
from my former misses
grow flies and maggots
attracting facets of rodents
crawling on the same wrist
where i once peeled and bit
into sweet meat sugar water
sucking seeds and plucking leaves
i can't help but miss
her peach chest
my nest at night
sending sugar plum dreams
to hold me over
until i awoke
in her garden of scents
and i guess it makes sense
my love has turned into
a mess of regrets
with pesticide mind
i find myself salivating
over her kiwi complexion
but there's no question
my good intentions
can't ripen and blossom
where she's gone rotten
so i accept my fate
to end my moldy maid
under a mango moon
in a bitter autumn sky
with a sigh-lined breath
i attempt to ask myself why
do i still want to try
knowing just one bite
would make me sick
but still i lick my lips
for one last taste
on this:
our expiration date

It's got it's Eur-ups and downs.

With pens, pencils and markers, I did my damnedest to document my European travels this past month. So... here they are:

(I suppose you've got to click on the picture to see the whole thing. Or you can just sit back, relax your clicking finger, and enjoy the partial zoom in of each page.)

Slight change.

My dreams in the form of pennies on the railroad tracks. Watch as the trains pass to smash them into copper flats. They're still there, but they have changed. Old Abe don't look the same.

:'':

Powder coats my fingers as the wing still flutters; separated from it's body, yet somehow still knowing to fight. My thumb and index pinch harder in attempt to win the battle. Surely it's got to end soon. Even the owner of the wing is beginning to slow, leaking insect guts on my mother's coffee table in a clockwise motion. My fist covers the light and casts a shadow as I raise it above my head. No emotions run through my chest, acting on pure instinct. With a crunch, the moth is crushed. I lift my sticky hand, retiring my fingers to reveal pink nail tracks dug into my palm. The gold and brown debris litter the top of oak. The wing still flutters.

Figures.

The street light behind him lit up his thin ears with a red glow. Before he could wipe the blood from his nose, it dripped onto his white shirt. Only adding to the stains.
"I'm not coming home." He shakily said. His words seemed to start confident in his throat, but lost momentum as they reached his lips. "I mean it this time."
The figure in front of him bent down, packed a ball of snow with his bare hands, then playfully tossed it a foot in the air. The figure was planning on catching it, but it fell apart when it left the figure's hand. It bend down again. This time, grabbing more snow, packing it tighter. The figure took a curious stance.
The boy with the blood-stained shirt new what was coming. Unphased, he stepped to the side as the snowball passed by, falling apart as it flew. He turned away from the figure, repeating: "I mean it this time."
The figure yelled, but the boy's cold, illumines ears could not decipher the moans.
Picking the clogged blood from his nostril, he continued his walk away from the figure. His words quiet, but growing confident. He whispered: "I mean it this time."