Dear Catherine

Dear Catherine,

The lonely nights call

As I flow for its attention

I could never catch it,

The series of clouds

Framing my face,

Forever

The senseless

Words

Are my

World.

Forever- a rhyme

There is dust

Around me.

Awaiting my third death,

I envy your pillow.

The flowers, the flowers,

Circle me,

From the waves,

To the sea.

I’m standing

Sand burning my feet

You’re here.

Take a seat.

I float alone.

Dear Catherine,

My constraints are heavy with certain infatuations of love and success.

Heavy with fantasies, I’m conjuring a nightmare.

So many nightmares through action, explanations.

They are smart fantasies. It explains why I cannot write an ordinary sentence.

Banality frightens me.

The failure to interject.

Chaos are my children and I am tired. Sometimes I wish the Bible would correct me.

How do you create a language transmittable to one object?

Approval of inferiority, romanticism, mental illness;

clouds, rain, stares of people, lay down in me.

Crying, crying, crying, crying.

Context is hell. I put faith into my crystals.

I do not remember what love feels like,

I never hear birds singing,

Or think about them, about that noise

That they gift my ears.

There is something wrong --

With only me.

Confusion is hearing cries in laughter.

My illusion is trying hard,

Can you see these heavy, burning eyes?

They are catching sunlight, knowledge,

All anonymously.

Sing a word, crying fuels me.

I’m crying. Imagine his fire caught within me.

Dear Catherine,

I can’t help but fantasize about dying.

I have to watch everyone cry,

I’m afraid because so many people died.

I hear Virginia Woolf and Christina Rossetti say to me;

Hear the trees weep,

You became a female,

All while 6 feet deep.

Ladders to fire, call me in advance.

No men, no women,

Crazy chants.

I think it’s my queer history.

The sea looks different to me.

Life is covered with flowers and candy-flavored lobotomies.

Sometimes, I see you Catherine, you resemble the many men I visit,

How many corpses that looks exquisite,

You stand before craters,

My land of bones.

I see you as my dead Lola,

Fingers trying to be brave

To crawl out of a grave.

You’re brave, a woman, your hands tied around mine.

Like God -- you stand the test of time.

I hear winters in the summer,

Birds swimming in the sea-- is that what poets perceive?

At night, bugs swarming,

Nails clicking to chaotic thought,

Words are chanted as prayers of words that have already been said;

“The irresponsible silence of the land,

The irresponsive standing of the sea,

Speak both one message of one sense to me:

Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof.

So stand

...of inner solitude.

….That final moment for man’s bliss or bane.

Vanity of vanities, yeah all is vain”