Long and poignant,
yet oblivious to
the presence of others.
A formal speech given alone.
What might this imply about the human presence?

"Grow up!"

Yes, that too.

Or grow down.
Or grow left.
Or grow right.
Or grow zig-zag.
Or grow loop-dee-loop.
Or grow cubist.
Or grow straight.
Or grow bent.

Grow any which way you desire
and bloom.

It is night.
Bicycle lights
strangle my eyes blindingly.
The epilepsy of luminosity
engulfs visibility
of the driver.

An appalled human punches a brick weeded wall.
A flimsy weed
unscrews.
It winds, winds
downwards like a stutter
to the trampled
alley way ground
where the lost,
famished ladybugs feast
upon a miraculous find.

People gaze at a checkered kite
fidgeting in the limb wind.
They think of the way
the oak sways like a kite,
like it is restrained by grasping
root fingers.

A few plunder over the concept of life
being the time one is harnessed to
the bindings of another creature.
They wonder if the concept of leaving life  
is being mistakenly detached
from those roots, those grasping hands -
and floating off into the next sky.

Is god to us what we are to miniscule creatures?
Is god just as we are - living, struggling,  and learning?
Is god oblivious to our existence
yet shifting our destiny with their choices?
Is god a civilization that we are the byproduct of?
Is god like the bicycle driver,
his presence cloaked by his deeds,
being the lights?
Is that why distinguishing god's deeds is cryptic,
because his deeds blind us to god's face?
Is god a form of root or gravity
that gradually lets it's strong hold decay
until we are weightless in roaming this universe?
Does god even know
that it is god?

I close my eyes into
the depths of thought.

In a land,
an insalubrious fish squirms with
discolored irredescence.

The plastic contraption is cumbersome;
It knots around the fish's
knife mouth and mercurial marble eyes.

The boy and girl,
knowing that a fish can not last with only oxygen
and
not knowing that a fish will not drown in water like themselves,
have uprooted the ghostly eyed fin to shore.

In an ignorant effort to augment the fish's life
they attached a gas mask
assuming it would preserve the fish from both the air and water.

Not knowing that needs can be found in between what is lethal and what sustains one.

"True soldiers go out of their way to help their comrades," the boy echoes.
The blood never stops here.  It leaks into the childrens' games.

The misunderstood fish, made obsequious by fate,
resists and gives up.

Like a suffocating human's head stuffed into a fish tank in hope for it to breathe once more,
Like a refugee mistakenly planted in a war zone,
Like a victim of the arbitrary.

It lies, dead.

One is a prodigy,
the other is a radical activist,
the last is yourself.

One is everything you long to be,
the other is endlessly condemning,
the last is thrashed by criticism.

We are all different,
and yet one has everything to do with the other.

I can say it's not too afflicting,
and duct tape the laceration.

Love conflicts with envy when I look into
one or the other's jowled eyes
and see the foreshadow of
everything I am supposed to be
transmute into
an overshadow of hands cuffing my future.

Over-shadows interrogate the once anonymous future
with restraints on what it possibly might be.
Innuendo gangs vandalize
the hoods of darkness
with buckets of off-white paint
which then stretch up into the disheveled walls
of my to-be house.
Police strip shadows while ignorant to what a naked shadow is
and harass them with static flashlight guns
in this double-sided stare.

In this colloquial debate.
In this embrace.
In this glance.

In silence.

Maybe, if we had eyes of pure glass
we could see through things.
Maybe, if we had eyes of pure glass,
we could shatter and then
glue each rainbow refracting, jagged piece back
into new perceptions.
Maybe, if we had eyes of pure glass,
we could reform the world through grinding and molding our telescope eyes into new shapes.
Maybe, if we had eyes of pure glass,
we would ponder over what it would be like not to have a tangible magnifier of life.
Maybe, if we had eyes of pure glass,
we would be the embodiment of idea because a concept's skin must be transient to be visible.
Maybe, if we had eyes of pure glass,
we could cry shadows.

I twirl a glass eye, and it's globe of transparency somehow reflects my own wide, maroon stare.
My frail pinky fogs the glass.
Condensed water molecules break it.
It smells of a silenced and immobile marble statue.
I drop it into oblivion, but the decayed glass like sand seems to reform into a shell
like the eternity of perspective.

A sluice of blood bubbles on my skin

A naked human like raw meat convulses in the dunes of it's own body;

it is perverse self birth.

The spine carves inwards as it pulsates; disintegrating it's human to the roots of ground.

It’s pale spine, like the binding of a book, twists and crackles and writhes.  

The spine ridges, connected only to shift, are like bone mountains.

A human earthquake, deconstruction resulting in creation.

I wonder if humans are the ridges of mountains,

and if mountains are the spine of the earth’s curled up body.

Like a snake, blooms, thorns, petals, and veins slither in and out of the body’s terrain.  

The snake of scaled blossoms endulates.  

It lays and fertilizes seeds of compressed creation scattered throughout the human.

Neither the seed nor the flower is the origin of this fertilization cycle

so the seed must also be a flower,

like how life and death have no differentiation.  

The creature’s skin is like fern green moss, like stubbly weeds molded over its infrastructure.

Its joints collapse, like weeping, into a womb position.

It cradles itself as if bare bones hold purpose.

The body is like a scab crusted over our beautiful, bloody innards.

I realize how no hidden thing is ever gone; the gone is only hidden.

A vague face sprouts like an allergic reaction, spraying saw dust of invention into the sails of wind.

Vulnerable creases of its neck unfold like crinkled paper.

Strangling branches of eye balls intertwine.

Eyes, confined to the prison bars of sight.  

Sight secludes itself to seeing an entity as one definitive thing.

Eyes, stitched to the tapering religion of believing what is seen only.

Virgin eyes, now intimate with the visual universe.

Eyes, indented within our skulls like creatures inside conch shells –

eternally living between what our mind oceans hides from us

and the tangible land of exposure.

Eyes, with a spectrum of blood shot streaks.

Eyes, initiating the purpose of having something to see.

Eyes, their only refuge from the sight drug being an outlook over the eye, which is blindness.

Eyes, changing the world through their perception as time passes

because they must, since time changes the world,

maybe.

Eyes, depicting what they observe and unwillingly making it an exhibition, like all art.

Eyes, a nested paradox of two-way reflections.

The walls shatter.  Slits of stone pour in every direction, the axis bends, bones crack.  I cover my head and stagger to the dark corner - only to catch myself before I fall off into the galaxy.
Blindness awakes, and I can feel the aura has shifted.  

It lay still.  Bloody, and dry.  It looks more like vomit than a human.  It is beautiful.  Bare, like a piece of hunted pray brought back from the wood.  Assembled pale pieces, faces crusted like an auburn fallen petal.  A change of seasons.  This body, stitched to its eyes, manipulated by the mind forever more.  Hands, the initiator of creation wrinkled with backwards undone experiences.  Its staggered breathing seethes through me like a ghost.  Our eyes are locked.

Rawness ripens.   When a creation starts being one definitive thing it stops being anything else.
We walk away together, to whoever we are and wherever our bodies will take us, despite our ignorance of what a destination is or if it is apparent.  We will find it somewhere within what the mind hides.

I reach my hand out; rip away the galaxies' shredding transparency.  Bits of glass cover every inch of our bodies and we trudge through borders.  The glass jerks away, pulling off some skin, and release us.

We step down into a spiral staircase unwinding from a stormy sky.

The world watches two skeletons fade away into coming.

My blood pressure rises in the energy I extract
to poise casually
in my burgundy cotton leggings
like scabs
and clicking chipped nails
like gnawing.

Neon dread locks flounce from
the man who carries
rubber speakers pierced
to his ears.

Her bubble wings are dusted with stardust
as she pricks against galaxy blooms
and their cactus light.

Their seaweed scaled bodies pulsate to the wind.  
The rapt wind shakes like
a clay flower pot
vibrating a top a piano
abused by the hand.

We walk on loose honey buttons
and cobble stone streets fall
from a haze of sideways journeys.

He twirls in fire crackers
and teaches the sparks tricks.

It's tongues flippers
like a mermaid
and when the lips part,
gateways to
a word jungle of vines, caves and cliffs
are revealed.

She sips rain juice
from a massive red straw
and flips her braid of bones
over a mountain -
the land's shoulder.

Ripples in a pond from the dipping of a frail finger
whirl into a hurricane
of mixed paint.

Dancing shadows, figures, beings
hatch from the bi product of creations
like an insect
thought to be dead
confined within amber.

Red lipstick
and dotted purple gowns
melt from mirrors
dripping from wax faces.

Sandy clouds crowd a mother pearl moon
while futile lines of territory explode
into the metal rods of a spiral notebook.

Alone,
I open my pencil case,
put my ear tightly against it's
congregation of scattered pencils,
and listen to the echo of un-drawn obscure lands.

I lie in the swollen fog.  It's invisible shade defies color to become an aura.  Gullies of mist slither and army crawl.  They hang low to the grounds in trepidation as if the earth were to collapse into tumultuous cliff ends, seize it's edges, and implode.  Grounds are laced in opal dew.  The earth is one vast loamy footprint.  Shreds of fog, like drapery, ruffle over a breathing corpse - myself.  

We are like needles, the space between us being deliquescing blood.  
You lie coiled and paralleled to me - making you, inevitably, the person I trust most in this universe.  

We might be intimate.  I can not tell.  Our eyes stare with cannibalistic vision.  Their window mirrors collide.  I observe you and you observe me.  We tease silent reactions from one another.  Frantically, I scrutinize your responses - oblivious to knowing that I am the stimulus itself.  

You cyclically do the same.  
This is when it happens.  

Our ambiguous reflections draped unto one other meet.  
Our searching eyes try to peel away bodies and expose the nudity of motives, our impetus of what we do.  But when both eyes are hunting for the other entity to be an exhibition, there is nothing to be seen.  Like fumbling pupils searching for darkness only to realize they are within it.  It is a void of mis-casted reflections.  

We radiate them like rays of sun blood.  
You tilt your whiskered, frosted skull.  

I am enticed by the web of all possible incentives encrypted in your movement.  Why, however, should I judge you from your motives?  A voice stirs from within.  Humanity judges often from actions.  The sullen rock does nothing, but by existing it becomes a fundamental part of the universe.  By doing anything at all we endanger purpose.  The hierarchies of how things work and how things don't work contort in human indecision- and it's off spring is the child called Choice.  The omnipresence of choice lurks on the crimson tree tops, like knit scarves, and in the crows flocked above like satin hair bows.  We are the stalking camera lenses distorting our behavior.  We are the spider's eyes.  We are our interactions. 

Silk eyelashes blink shadowing your scarred cheek bones.  Thorns of light make you squint.  It's not cold, but I can still see my breathe.  Even though I've depicted motives, I can't fathom why it feels like numb tears have dried on my cheek.  I have not cried.  Tunes crackle in your hum.  
The fog only denses.

Fog hazes a window.
I find a finger tracing an icy shape for me,
so I can pretend it is
my telescope.
Tipping-toes of frost prick my pink earlobes.
Silence eats from the inside
to the out.
Time drenches a half-shy moon.
I am not in a room.
I am by a window.
Bare shoulders
makes it
cold.

Being able to

see in

often means

that you are

looking

from the

outside.

(This is where the face goes.)

Flipping cut cylinders -
a shine passes as I blink.
A clink of metal, like ice.
Brief turbulence of reflective surfaces shuffles through the air.

Nervously tapping the cause of all war and blood on this earth between my thumb and pinky, like ignorance.
The off-beat echoes and a man in a suit glances over curiously.

Head or tails?
You tell me.

I'd rather take what's in between,
forget the coin.

Love -
It's really all
I want.
I just can't
tell if I've got it or not.
Like I'm oblivious
to life
and
death.

I'm sorry that I bit you,
my teeth stung with the cavities of bad intentions.
I'm sorry that I bit you,
your provoking words racked the language shelves from my lips, leaving me no choice but to let the novels of insults beat over your wicked head.
I'm sorry that I bit you;
At-least the stinging of disinfecting cream spread over your involuntary vampire tattoo (inflicted by me) could clean the mess that I wouldn't.  
I'm sorry that I bit you,
Your shrieks drowned my thoughts when I lunged; I never knew I was born with good aim.
I'm sorry that I bit you,
And I wish I could mean it when I say -
I'm sorry that I bit you.

I hope your wounds heal everything but the scar I left.

May it remind you that we are not friends.