a truth can never be spoken
we are all universes
in ourselves

even wind,
at times,
wears socks.

blind
is love
so we
won't see
eye-to-eye

and this is not a poem
literary fates eclipse
this little language
trapped in noun worship.
but, that's not what words are for,
any noun is a metaphor
an adjective similarly, a conformity
of monsters, de-monstrated.
grammatically
and her graceful verbal gates are
swiftly, adverbially, justified;
clarified and in-dignified.
this is not understanding,
this may be a collection of figures, but
this could also be any number
of lines on paper,
concretely representing,
a passionate case for
words;
the punctuated cultural utterances
that pool and dissipate
in the empty spaces
a mouth was taught to make


fake

i love you
because
you always
let me sit
on the inside of the booth
at restaurants,
always
give me room
on the shared movie theater armrest
and
insist on walking closest to the curb
on sidewalks...

i don't do well in chat-rooms
web boards
or blogs, really

i just do it
because i can.
and maybe someone
hears me

after the car pulls away,
the wet mud fills in the tracks.
it's almost like you were never here, at all

birds of prey

all i want, is
to get in--
make my space come alive
capable of my own breath, and breadth
one time, in this forever.

in the void of now-for a shot-
how do i prove i'm
worthy of space?
still, i want to be a part of this pluribus
make up more than the whole; yet never amalgamate.
denied, why i?
i'm not lazy
and i'm not stupid
and i'm not crazy, well...not completely, but
closer to perfect.....all the time.

this moment, "now"--
is the hand
that closes the door
and closes the door
and closes the door
how many doors
has my heart...?
how many close before i am
...like i used to be
when everything seemed....ok
when i listened to news
when i packed my lunch
when i watched clocks..?
it's lucky that none of this is real,
what a terrible bother
for now; to have to wait,
forcing shut always, "now!"
a carrier of catalysts
slamming shut
on dream, hope, desire; polarized
by echoes that fall behind, and
in on themselves,
like houses of cards
like heel clicks down distant hallways
like messages between hushed, wet whispers
like that ache of measured silences
following every piece of music i ever loved--every, single, time...
"now" defines by absence,
"now" is a door that closes,
and before i have my shot
at forever
deflates like a slivered heartbeat,
despite
my wishes
of pushing it,
ajar.

I am in love with the truth

in your eyes

the smile

in your heart and

our future

as your mind sees it

divorced of past

ever ahead-

beyond our petty currencies

in moments of security

just after your every word

their punctuated fluidity

waves in the air

like flags

that own no shadow

or color; only the cool rush-

the flip

of flag curls-

cracking

in an updraft

of your breath-

like the sound

of birds’ wings,

flocks beating

against the weight of air--

just that curious interest

snap-sound of freedom

from gravity,

as they pull

our wealth-of flight

from the wind.

inside each brain
beneath foggy skies
across vast vacuum
from a star
that upon expiration
spews forth life
in the form
of hot light;
sails the distance
through the darkness
evolving by increments
back to consciousness-
inside each brain
beneath foggy skies
across vast vacuum
from a star
that upon expiration 
spews forth life
in the form 
of hot light; 
sails the distance 
through the darkness
evolving by increments 
back to consciousness-
inside each brain 
beneath foggy skies 
across vast vacuum 
from a star
that upon expiration 
spews forth life
in the form 
of hot light; 
sails the distance 
through the darkness
evolving by increments 
back to consciousness-
inside each brain 

...

did you catch some faith
while ahead, we chased fallen
stars from molten sky?

what is your weapon
against love; and made without?
fear will silence tongues.

who sold your freedom
on paper? (so-fucking-well?!)
do you share profits?

I rarely sleep,
And always-
when
I manage to-
           
I sleep slight
   -wake tired.

In my kitchen-
          resting; are
       Monday's dishes,
      beside wads
        of one-use
              grocery bags.
          
                       But;--
  I don't cook;
              -or haven't-
  In what;-like;
            two months?

Who's interested
                 in eating?
            Maybe flies
      are important
dinner guests?
         Various diplomats,
               visiting counter tops.
                           They take off-
                         and land,
                      in puddles
             of this-andthats,
     or Saturday cereals--
         after accepting
            their
               daily
                  invitation?

I'd rather retire-
         eat poetry; fresh-
            from my computer,
                      my notebooks
                           markers, and
                          clean pens.    
Why not words, then;
                          if percise,
                             be my vitamins?

And probably,

I prefer them- anyway.

I don't fuss

         for dishes;
              for flies-
                 or things said,
                   that once
                  covered for want-
                  but didn't explain,
                  my miss/interest.
             
It's all
nasty.
This-
and the lie
told
for it;

If I were
    productive-
         where would
                      flies eat?
             Where would
              the dinner dignitary
                                   dip feet,
                                   in week-
                                          old-
                                     honey?

I saved the smiles
I found, which were
   tucked between
   the pages
   of strangers' photos-
I had only heard stories
of the sunny days
when their smiles were frozen-
how their hope had been drowned
in grassy places
         and windows
         and guns;
I hadn't been born
They couldn't really
  expect me, to understand
they said-
about why things happen,
why good people are so hard to protect..
or why dad at war for so long-
....why he seems to be; even now.
I found all their smiling, frozen faces-
in a picture book,
They're beautiful
and pitiful
youthful, strange, and still-
each, floating on a sunny, summer clothes line-
belonging to a dream.