The Bear has once again greeted me 
in the dining room during lunch. 
He has slumped behind the office desk 
covered in coffee stains and piled receipts. 
He reads the obituaries in the daily 
newspaper across from me at the table.
The Bear folds my laundry, but can never 
seem to reprimand the wrinkles in my shirts. 
He drinks enough for Him and i, at least He 
pays the bill every once in a while.

He softly knocks at my door; like how you
would in order to not wake a sleeping baby.
My bed returns to smelling of stalactites.
His prickly muddy hair covers my sheets
and He tracks uprooted soil through
the halls of our mossy mausoleum. 
The Bear brings His nice silence into 
    my home, my bed, my being.  
    The Bear holds me, i finally let Him, 
        and we hibernate until Earth resigns.

In a blue house with a red roof
lays a scraggly dog and his human.
The frost creeps up in their sleep,
decorating the house in winter,
crafting a vignette by the furnace.

These two young beings snore
through all the charging storms 
as their house is covered in snow.
It wears a conservative pale suit 
rather than it’s routine flashy garb.

The dog and human rub their eyes,
babies woken by the moons beacon
nursing them as a lighthouse would.
Finally, the clouds soften above
their white house with a white roof.
 

i finally understand female rage.

     I. Bassinet Mouth

soak her up, wring her out
spill the milk, bassinet mouth
may will come, oh it will go
pop them down, by heavens row

scrape the edge, blend it too
crack her mirror, doll’s dear youth
sun will dawn, oh it will soon be done
when in roam, silence has sung

cry on sheets, screams in film
blaze her creation, motherly kiln
porcelain spreads, oh how she wept
nothing more to fill, nothing hers is left

take the garden, every last part 
a vacant body, visitor heart
she breathes in, oh it is staying in
she breathes in, again and again

     II. Dolls Dear Youth

soak me up, bassinet mouth
i breathe in, wring me out
sun will dawn, silence has sung
i breathe in, oh it will soon be done

porcelain spreads, nothing mine is left
i breathe in, oh how i wept
take my garden, visitor heart

Once Birch was bought
she left, feeling lost.
She placed covered pawprints
and settled in snow;
found without a whisper.

Oh, zingy old Zanzibar,
we’ll meet after March.
Close behind the barn,
summer ferns will form
your greeted green grave.

they buy the marrow of weakness
on the corner of featherless angels.

then resurface their stashed rigs
within the chest of their chapel.

they blaze spooned tar and pour
liquid heaven into icy blue rivers.

then discard of their cutlery and nod
off to the banner of a greater world.

they float higher than the mist 
that ascends upon the northern hills.

then the torch that bled their creation
embarks on a path to their blackish bed.

they burn in daylight, cremated by the
golden hues of their beloved’s maker. 

War is all that we have seen;
mothers turning into human shields,
fathers’ pride sharp as the bullets cast,
children—younger than me—crying goodbyes.
Why should we know of peace?

Misery is all that we have known;
discrimination lurks in the flashing lights,
polluted lungs from air and addictions,
sickness rampant in the roaring '20s shadow.
Why should we know of happiness?

Blue screen is all that we have faced;
bodies shrunk into the pits of self-esteem,
bloodied hallways are our generation’s regret, 
birthdays are celebrated with student graves.
Why should we know of safety?

This decaying home is all we have;
too many lives have been lost to ignorance,
fools rule the world per civilization’s pattern, 
negligence toward humanity and nature.
Why should we know of our future?

Upon adulthood this is all that is left;
nostalgia stolen by mankind’s cupidity,

I crave to press spring 
memories in the pages 
of softest moleskin.

Journals with petals 
spurring out from the buds of 
newly birthed flowers. 

Delicate as young 
love always is: bound to be 
broken by mistake.

Endless as Mother 
Earth intends. But when does Break
call for Mend? Can the

thin stem of a pink
Hydrangea be replanted
and grown once again?

i began writing my will and goodbyes at 13;
after every night i waited for my death bed 
to hold me in an unconscious embrace and 
to cradle me until i returned to our Mother,

i anticipated my rebirth to commence at 14;
i endured the unforeseen stumble onto loves knife,
while my twin flame burned third degree scars
i blindly thanked both of them for bestowing  

pain rather than leaving me empty, then came 15;
i banished fire, too destructive for my wounded
world, wynorrific tree of heaven’s pioneered the
second succession in coming-of-age stories, and

when the retreat of fog revealed a serene 16;
i thought maybe this is what people know as faith,
instead of worshiping Grim i began venerating Future, 
i meticulously wrote my new script with the love

i should have always gifted myself, but today is 17;
every year prior i addressed my bare death bed,

In the early morning I wake with Sun,
And she smiles at me with yellow teeth,
And I think Imperfection is beautiful.

In the last moments of the day Bird flies,
And I hear them chirp to the heavens, 
And I think they know Fate all too well.

In the shivering midday I sit with Wind,
And he laughs like Frost, with pain,
And I think he follows Lonely’s footsteps.

In the hours succeeding noon Dog howls,
And they chase fast cars for pleasure, 
And I think Wishes pine for Ambition.

In the late night I kiss Sun farewell
And I ask Moon, “Keep watch over me,”
And I think she loves Flaws, too.