9:35

I had a dream that my journal was full. I turned the pages and saw words upside down, pictures, prayers. I always see when I close my eyes with enough images and lunacy for you to wash your body with, drink in the hot July, massage into the bruises of your feet. My head is hungrier than my limbs and I desire the filthy words of Anais because they have more honesty than the poems of a mystic starving his cells of water in a desert, the coyotes refusing to come near because his sweat is so sick. I heard once that only women can be close to god, but I did not listen, because I feel that I should have been born a man with a man's freedom, his hard body and strong jaw. My lover calls me a beautiful boy, a prince; my brain is full of ambiguity and non-reality. I understand that part of my happiness is accepting that I will be lost forever.

I do not understand myself, I do not understand this gray-morning sky with its lights turned down, I do not understand how fruit is grown and how the cut on my leg healed without me paying attention to it. There are ghosts everywhere. The sound of the ocean may be the oldest thing on earth and I hate being locked in the mountains because they are often too beautiful and I live in the bathtub because I am a witch, a womb-man that needs to be close to water. A creature that desires beautiful skin.  For the first time in years I miss California with its loud waves and the surfboards on the porch, the pot full of jasmine rice on the stove, the sand in my mouth that I thought would suffocate me. I could fall back into the sea, but I am scared that it would spit me out, and I could never live with that rejection.

I only want to write to you, whatever you are. 
I feel that these words can be useless, a waste of time.
I want them to pack into your joints like cement.
I want to cut into you skin and lick whatever is underneath.
I want to replace your heart with an apple, eat your thoughts.
I want to give you keys, but tell you not to open the room.
(The key will fill the house with blood if you do)
I want to translate the myths in your mind.
True poetry is cruel.
Wild animals have been waiting for us, at the edge of the desert.
Move through my body like air.
If you turn me inside out, you will find fur.
When I die, remove my fingers and use them as runes.
God is red.
Use what is between my legs as cream.
I want to disgust you.
I want to terrify you.
I want to give you the words that make life worth living.



My skull has been cracked open with a hammer and I am seeing things in the grass that are not there. I am sewing emotion and plastic into my skin. I detach soul from body and go back to a life on ships and in lighthouses, eating fish and sleeping in hammocks, surrounded by water that I cannot drink. I want to be free from Hell.