Doting Vectors


Is comprised
Of things that kill us
So what are you doing
This doomsday?
Let’s take a drive
To point oblivion
And exhale
This exile
We can fog
Up the windows
Of the universe
And shoot down stars
With the rubber bands
In our masks
Watch them come
Crashing down
One by one
Under the heap
Of this sickened world
Revel in the ash
Filled smoke
Of our melting
Upholstery and chocolate
Heart-Shaped inoculum
We can try to breathe
Like before we met
And hope to hell
That our lungs
How to move again



I am just a dot
Among trillions
And trillions and trillions
Of other dots
Vying for punctuation
And grammatical clarity

I had my days of fame
Tho I can’t complain
We were in demand
As prefixes to coms
In the late 90’s
Before the bubble burst

Now my work
Has dried up
Save a semicolon;
Here and there
Or a random lowercase
i or j

Lately I’ve discovered
My true power
Signaling the end
Of eras, books, chapters,
Sentences, letters
And periods

Of silence
Like the one
Between us
And the one
At the end
Of this line.

Never before

have I seen such a large group of people

hide their chances to

to one

The Previous Owner


I wonder who lived here
Prior to me moving in to this
Conch shell and naked body
I never smoke but it sometimes
Reeks of stale cigarettes and beer

There are some vestigial organs
That I will never use but I am happy
They are still hanging around
And scars that I can only imagine
Why and how they were formed

Sometimes I feel strangers’ eyes
Examining me and I begin to worry
Maybe they inhabited this place first
Perhaps they just went to buy milk
And I somehow stumbled in here

There is evidence of disrepair all over
My eyes are getting worse everyday
My ankles and feet are always sore
Makes me curious how many miles
And places that it has been before

I’ve finally started getting used to it
I don’t think I’d get much value
On a trade in for a better model
I’ve cleaned it up and added a few things
And learning how to love myself

Like the previous owner did

The Invisible Man


His footsteps fade like the muted timbre of a passing storm
Grey then cloudy then rainy to occasionally sunny then black
Then brilliant rainbow exploding pods of iridescent frequencies
Eventually humming their way into sighs fitted into XL sized mittens

Somewhere his echoes of a lost and afraid boy are singing and playing
After dark with a severely skinned knee and a baseball card in his spokes
Now they lie muffled in forgotten suitcases buried at bottoms of closets
Dressing up with my phalanx of skeletons that haunt and reside there
The sound of their chattering and clanking bones no longer audible

Tho, every now and then
I hear his whispers flit past
The snoring hallway doors
That were once wide open
And singing
But are now locked
And deafened.



My heart is an ocean full of tiny floating balloons
Their silhouettes dancing and singing under my blood
Glowing shadow puppets on invisible strings
Stretched and splayed into pleached trampolines
A tattered and threadbare net made from my grins and sighs
That lie hidden and tarried for that decisive moment
When one of them finally pops and plummets
Sometimes like the confetti at my 11th birthday party
Sometimes like a thousand little anvils crashing down
Into an abandoned field of longing and unrequited sky
And sometimes like a mysterious and peculiar storm
Coiled, hissing and thrashing within my rib cage
Leaving discarded shiny skins and bread crumb relics

And sometimes they bounce up

And just sometimes, we’ll bounce back
Billowy and invincible with silver lined breath
and hope.




Ever notice the way lawyers walk like crows?
Hobbling their feet like old men with canes
They are always on the lookout for something shiny
Or something about to die, dying, or dead

These senators, these landlords, these bosses
These uliginous touts in designer suits and ties
Gathered together and shaking in the pouring rain
Dickering over the last remaining umbrella

I know this guy that comes in to clean after the place closes
He plays saxophone like Coltrane in his prime
There’s this homeless lady that prays on the corner
Somewhere out there is a galaxy she named back in grad school

Theirs is not what commerce fertilizes
Theirs is what’s barely alive and pushed into the shadows
Candle lit, repudiated roses that never get water or sun
Their bones picked through and their talents left to rot

Upon the altars of machination
And the abominations
Of scavengers.

The Fox In Me


Gender Dysphoria, there I finally said it
It’s cruel mythological paradox between my soul and body
Like Laelaps the hound that always caught its prey
and the cunning, Canis Minor that she never caught

I tried to escape it, drink, and ignore it away
I stashed it for years underneath my childhood psychosis
Next to my box of tattered bird feathers, acrophobia, and fear of clowns
I even tried hiking it 10,000 miles away from me

On the good days, it’s delicately courageous
Refulgent and vulnerable like a three-legged fox
Defiantly limping away from the hunter’s snare in the crooked dawn

At its worst is the smothering desperation of not being taken seriously
Stuck in a perpetual tug-of-war between awkwardness and my femininity
Spirit fettered inside an anomalous corporeal manifestation
Like my blood and the sound of my wings dragging on the floor

I love wearing things not built to be dirty and covered in grease
Things like perfume, makeup, bells, jewelry, ribbons, and tiaras
Adorned and crowned with the ability to melt hearts
Like my first true love and my mother’s plaintive voice

Growing up, my father hated me playing with Star wars dolls
and writing poetry and baking cookies in the kitchen with my mom
“No son of mine will ever be a sissy girl,” he often warned me

He tried showing me how to change the oil in his shitty, 1988 Ford Taurus
And explaining the intricacies of a shotgun offensive formation in football
But I was thinking about Princess Leia’s white dress and her hair buns

I remember my father’s funeral and all the sadness stuffed in people’s faces
and the fox in me thinking that losing a leg isn’t so bad if it meant being free

My Bicycle Commute


Flailing around like a dead fish
Waking up amidst train horns
Snoring cats, disheveled bed sheets
And my goddamn schizophrenic alarm clock
Dreams eternally interrupted and forgotten 
Behold and welcome a brand new workday

Cycling around needles, junkies, baby strollers
Mom’s walking dogs in Christmas sweaters
And sots singing under foot bridges
Slatterns with grocery carts on the west side
By the tracks where the dawn’s ricocheting barbs
Stab the grass like a million golden daggers

Day-by-day you begin to slowly relent
Iterate, repeat until you’ve had enough
Insidiously and deliberate, the shitters nudge you
Into the certainty and eventuality of giving in
And suddenly the starless morning flickers,
then dims….And I clock in.



You can burn your maps
And let the sextons rust
The only navigation
steering that stormy night
Was death’s cold stare
Pointed in my back

Like a twisting cyclone
In the still of the night
“Don’t turn around faggot
Or I will fucking shoot”
The weight of his breath
Splattered over my back

There weren’t any survivors
From the wreck of the S.S. Marc Loren
Just a breached hull, stolen IPod,
And my frozen pile of bones
If you do find my remains
know that dead men don’t tell

I am something else.

Alexia Lewis R.D.

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